In  the  Garret 

by 

Carl  Van  Vechten 


^ I  ^  HE  author  ascends  to  flic  garret  and  peruses  the  contents  of 
an  ancient  trunk.  Old  books,  bound  in  vellum  and  cloth, 
faded  photographs,  wood-cuts  and  engravings,  dog-cared 
periodicals,  -packets  of  letters,  scraps  of  tabby,  cashmere,  and 
taffeta  dresses,  and  theatre  programmes  fall  under  his  eyes  and 
slip  through  his  fingers.  Memories  arise  and  the  old  garret  is 
suffused  ivith  a  candent  glozv  in  zvhich  the  cities  of  the  past  and 
present  appear  and  disappear  like  mirages  and  the  figures  of  the 
past  and  present  stalk  like  stately  ivraiths. 

There  are  glimpses  of  Nezv  York,  Florence,  Nassau,  Paris,  and 
London;  there  are  visions  of  Philip  Thicknesse,  Isaac  Albenis, 
Sir  Arthur  Sullivan,  Farfariello,  George  Moore,  Fra  Angelic o, 
and  Mimi  Aguglia.  Can  musicians  zcrite  books?  Has  Iowa  pro- 
duced folk-songs?  Can  masterpieces  be  successfully  rezvrittenf 
Has  heaven  or  hell  been  the  better  inspiration  to  composers?  are 
some  of  the  questions  the  author  asks  himself  and  tries  to  answer. 
This  is  a  book  of  pictures,  portraits,  and  moods. 


ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  H^^     PUBLISHER,   N,    1 


CONTENTS 

Variations    on    a    theme    by    Havelock 

Ellis 
A   note   on    Philip   Thicknesse 
The  Rape  of  the  Madonna  della  Stella 
The    Folk-son;.: 
Isaac   Allx-niz 
The    Holy   Jumpers 
On  the  Relative  Difficulty  of  Depicting 

Heaven  and  Hell  in  Music 
The  Nightingale  and  the  Peahen 
Sir  Arthur  Sullivan 
How    Mr,    George    Moore    Rescued    a 

Lady   from   Embarrassment 
La  Tigresse 

In  the  Theatres  of  the  Purlieus 
Mimi  Aguglia  as  Salome 
Farfariello 
The  Negro  Theatre 
The  Yiddish   Theatre 
The    Spanish    Theatre 


jilifomia  •  Berkeley 


iftof 


'adgette 


In  the  Garret 


BOOKS  BY 
CARL  VAN  VECHTEN 

IN  THE  GARRET 

THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND 

THE  MUSIC  OF  SPAIN 

INTERPRETERS  AND  INTERPRETATIONS 

MUSIC  AND  BAD  MANNERS 

MUSIC  AFTER  THE  GREAT  WAR 


In  the  Garret 


Carl    Van    Vechte 


n 


*  Memory  is  the  mother  of  the  Muses.  " 
George  Moore 


New  York  •  Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 

MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 


PBINTCD    IN    THE    UNITKD    8TATBS    Or    AlCKHICA 


To  Dorothy  and  Joseph  Hergesheimer, 
with  warm  affection,  I  send  this  book. 


Tout  est  rien  pour  V indifference 
Un  rien  est  tout  pour  Vamitie, 


CONTENTS 

Variations  on  a  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis  11 

A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse  43 

The  Folk-Songs  of  Iowa  73 

Isaac  Albeniz  95 

The  Holy  Jumpers  131 

On  the  Relative  Difficulties  of  Depicting 
Heaven  and  Hell  in  Music  149 

Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  171 
On  the  Rewriting  of  Masterpieces  205 
Oscar  Hammerstein:  An  Epitaph  237 
La  Tigresse  263 

In  the  Theatres  of  the  Purlieus 
I     Mimi  Aguglia  as  Salome  287 
II     Farfariello  302 
III     The  Negro  Theatre  312 
IV     The  Yiddish  Theatre  325 
V     The  Spanish  Theatre 


Variations  on  a  Theme 
By  Havelock  Ellis 

A  poetic  musician,  a  musical  poet:  two  mighty  good 
things,  in  their  way!  That  is,  if  the  musician  he  a 
musician,  and  the  poet,  a  poet. 

W.  F.  Apthorp. 


Variations    on  a   Theme 


THE  note-books  of  an  artist  always  make 
interesting  reading.  These  ideas,  inci- 
dents, descriptions,  these  jottings  down 
against  the  treachery  of  memory,  which  some  day 
may  fall  into  their  proper  places,  often  exhibit, 
when  published,  a  more  spontaneous  grace  than 
finished  work.  The  later  books  of  Arthur  Symons 
are  little  more  than  note-books,  impressions  illumi- 
natingly  descriptive,  shadows  of  ideas.  Therein 
lies  the  secret  of  their  enduring  charm.  Samuel 
Butler's  "  Note-Book,"  which  has  been  published, 
is  a  treasure  house  of  thought  and  wisdom.  One 
day  it  occurred  to  Havelock  Ellis  that  he  had 
made  more  notes  than  he  could  ever  conveniently 
find  occasion  to  use  and  he  filled  a  book  with  them, 
"  Impressions  and  Comments,"  a  delightfully  stim- 
ulating volume,  one  of  the  best  of  this  author, 
brimming  over  with  pictures,  ideas,  and  running 
commentary.  Herein  one  may  find  discussions  of 
Sir  Richard  Burton,  Romanesque  architecture, 
vegetarianism  and  vivisection,  the  significance  of 
the  body,  William  Blake,  Jacobean  furniture,  ob- 

[11] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

scurity  in  style,  Jules  de  Gaultier,  crowd  psychol- 
ogy, Bovarism,  the  symbolism  of  the  apple,  the 
Bayeux  tapestry,  flowers,  the  decline  in  the  birth 
rate,  and  Granville  Barker.  Here  is  indeed  a 
book  which  rewards  any  chance  reader  who  flips 
open  the  pages.  Picking  it  up  for  five  minutes  or 
an  hour  I  have  never  failed  to  find  enjoyment  in  it. 
Recently  I  ran  across  the  following  passage,  "  I 
have  often  noticed  .  .  .  that  when  an  artist  in  de- 
sign, whether  line  or  colour  or  clay,  takes  up  a 
pen  and  writes,  he  generally  writes  well,  sometimes 
even  superbly  well.  Again  and  again  it  has  hap- 
pened that  a  man  who  has  spent  his  life  with  a 
brush  in  his  hand  has  beaten  the  best  penmen  at 
their  own  weapon.  ...  It  is  hard  indeed  to  think 
of  any  artist  in  design  who  has  been  a  bad  writer. 
The  painter  may  never  write,  but  when  he  writes,  it 
would  almost  seem  without  an  eff^ort,  he  writes 
well.  .  .  .  And  then,  for  contrast,  think  of  that 
other  art,  which  yet  seems  to  be  so  much  nearer  to 
words ;  think  of  musicians !  " 


n 


Why  is  it  that  musicians  cannot  write?  I  asked 
myself,  for  it  needed  only  a  half  moment's  reflec- 
tion to  convince  me  that  Mr.  Ellis  was  right,  al- 
[12] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

though  he  does  not  attempt  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion. .  .  .  Wagner  is  the  first  musician-writer  to 
come  to  mind,  for  whether  he  could  or  not,  Wag- 
ner certainly  did  write.  He  not  only  wrote  the 
texts  for  his  lyric  dramas  but  also  countless  pa- 
pers, manifestoes,  explanations,  arguments,  etc., 
most  of  which  have  been  carefully  collected  and 
which  Mr.  William  Ashton  Ellis  has  rendered  to 
us  in  very  faithful  if  not  very  distinguished  Eng- 
lish in  eight  volumes.  Several  volumes  of  letters 
and  the  posthumous  "  Life  "  make  a  formidable 
total.  There  are  undoubtedly  priceless  facts, 
brilliant  ideas,  withal  somewhat  incoherent  and 
contradictory,  buried  in  this  mass  of  matter.  Bi- 
ographers in  general  have  found  this  material  use- 
ful; music  critics  occasionally  turn  to  it  for  cor- 
roboration or  assistance;  others  leave  it  alone. 
Wagner,  indeed,  was  always  at  a  disadvantage 
when  he  wrote  in  words.  Even  the  plays  do  not 
rise  to  very  inspired  heights  without  the  music. 
Compare  the  direct  and  moving  music  of  the  love 
scene  in  the  second  act  of  Tristan  with  the  meta- 
physical sentiments  and  sentences  which  flow  from 
the  lips  of  the  guilty  pair.  His  prose  works,  with 
their  equivocal  qualities,  their  ponderous  and 
opaque  phraseology,  their  individual  and  very  bad 
German,  would  seemingly  resist  translation,  but 
[13] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

Mr.  Ellis  has  wrestled  with  the  task,  accomplished 
it,  and  even  emerged  to  praise  Wagner's  style, 
praise  which  has  found  no  echo.  Of  course  the 
"  Life  "  should  have  been  a  masterpiece  and  it  is 
far  from  being  a  failure.  Autobiography,  even 
at  its  worst,  is  possibly  the  most  enthralling  form 
of  literature.  But  compare  the  sparkling  chap- 
ters of  Benvenuto  Cellini  with  the  halting,  obscure, 
and  deliberately  untruthful  pages  in  Richard 
Wagner's  account  of  his  life  and  you  will  feel, 
somehow,  that  you  have  been  cheated.  And  yet 
Wagner  probably  had  more  to  tell  than  Cellini. 
The  true  story  of  the  Wesendonck  affair,  the  full 
details  of  his  TJienage  with  the  virgin  king,  a  glow- 
ing narrative  of  his  capture  of  Cosima  von  Biilow, 
in  themselves  would  have  furnished  the  material 
for  a  remarkable  tryptich  in  the  style  of  George 
Moore's  "  Hail  and  Farewell."  But  he  could  not 
put  it  down.  He  did  not  know  how  to  write. 
James  Huneker,  Catulle  Mendes,  a  dozen  writers 
have  done  it  better,  and  yet  Wagner  was  there 
when  these  things  happened. 

Gluck's  famous  preface  to  Alceste  scarcely  gives 
him  claim  to  serious  consideration  as  a  writer. 
Mozart's  letters,  which  are  best  perused  in  the 
volume  of  excerpts  compiled  by  Friedrich  Kerst, 
contain  many  passages  of  interest  to  the  music 
[14] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

student,  but  they  cannot  be  regarded  as  literature, 
nor  is  there  any  reason  why  they  should  be. 
Their  style,  the  translator  assures  us,  is  "  care- 
less, contradictory,  and  sprawling."  Beethoven 
certainly  knew  nothing  of  literary  art.  Schubert 
and  Weber  remained  ignorant  of  it.  Poor  Chopin 
knew  enough  to  stick  to  music.  Paul  De  Musset 
replied  to  George  Sand's  "  Elle  et  Lui  "  with  an- 
other roman  a  clef  but  when  "  Lucrezia  Floriani  " 
appeared,  Chopin  contented  himself  with  answer- 
ing it  on  the  piano.  Mendelssohn's  prose,  exposed 
to  us  in  his  numerous  letters,  is  as  sentimental  as 
his  music  and  not  so  pretty. 

Jean-Philippe  Rameau,  composer,  and  inventor 
of  the  system  of  the  "  fundamental  bass,"  wrote 
several  books,  "  Traite  de  I'Harmonie  Reduite  k 
ses  Principes  Naturels  "  (Paris,  1722),  "  Nouveau 
Systeme  de  Musique  Theorique "  (Paris,  1726), 
"Generation  Harmonique "  (Paris,  1737),  and 
"  Code  de  Musique  Practique  "  (Paris,  1760).  I 
have  not  attempted  to  read  these  books,  but  J.  E. 
Matthew  says  of  them,  "  It  must  be  admitted  that 
the  style  of  Rameau  is  greatly  wanting  in  clear- 
ness, so  that  some  resolution  is  called  for  in  reading 
his  works."  .  .  .  Gretry's  "  Memoires,"  published 
in  Paris  in  1797,  make  amusing  reading  but  are 
not  vastly  important  as  literature. 
[16] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

Offenbach's  account  of  his  trip  to  America  is 
the  work  of  a  fifth-rate  journalistic  hack;  cer- 
tainly not  worthy  of  a  man  whose  music  has  been 
compared  to  champagne.  Saint-Saens  is  ponder- 
ous enough  in  prose;  in  his  books  he  suggests  the 
bassoon  figure  in  the  middle  of  the  scherzo  of 
Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony.  Gounod  is  insuf- 
ferably sentimental.  Anton  Rubinstein  was  a 
great  pianist  and  an  indifferent  composer,  but  his 
autobiography  is  even  worse  than  his  music.  We 
see  very  little  of  the  artist  who  created  Carmen  in 
the  letters  of  Bizet.  Alfred  Bruneau,  a  composer 
of  the  second  class,  is  a  music  critic  of  the  third. 
Vincent  d'Indy's  "  Cesar  Franck  "  is  a  scholarly 
piece  of  work  which  serves  its  purpose,  but  it  is  in 
no  sense  a  literary  masterpiece.  It  could  be  read 
only  by  a  musician.  What  an  opportunity  Mas- 
senet missed  in  his  "  Souvenirs  " !  What  a  life  the 
man  had!  What  a  career!  But  the  book  is 
notable  neither  for  revelations  of  character  nor 
incident.  It  is  written  in  very  mediocre  French 
and  even  the  spelling  is  bad.  I  remember  Ger- 
aldine  "  Farar."  Hugo  Wolf  in  1884,  and  for  the 
following  three  years,  acted  as  musical  critic  for 
the  Vienna  "  Salonblatt."  Ernest  Newman  says, 
"  He  wrote  singularly  well,"  but  the  excerpts  and 
summaries  that  he  offers  us  in  evidence  of  this 
[16] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

prowess  are  not  very  convincing.  If  Wolf's  repu- 
tation as  a  song  writer  is  not  as  overwhelming  as 
Mr.  Newman  would  have  us  believe  (he  places  him 
above  Schubert!)  it  may  be  said  without  fear  of 
contradiction  that  as  a  writer  of  prose  he  is  little 
known  even  by  musicians. 

Cyril  Scott  is  a  facile  composer  of  pretty  music, 
the  importance  of  which  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
overestimate.  Scott  has  also  published  five  vol- 
umes of  poetry  and  a  volume  of  translations  from 
Stefan  George  and  Baudelaire.  The  titles  of  his 
books  are  "  The  Shadows  of  Silence  and  the  Songs 
of  Yesterday,"  "  The  Grave  of  Eros  and  the  Book 
of  Mournful  Melodies  with  Dreams  from  the 
East,"  "  The  Voice  of  the  Ancient,"  "  The  Vales 
of  Unity,"  and  "The  Celestial  Aftermath,  A 
Springtide  of  the  Heart,  and  Far-Away  Songs." 
A.  Eaglefield  Hull  devotes  an  entire  chapter  in  his 
somewhat  emotional  book  on  Cyril  Scott  to  this 
"  poetry  "  as  he  explains  that  Scott  at  times  be- 
lieves himself  to  be  greater  as  poet  than  as  com- 
poser. We  learn  via  Mr.  Hull  that  in  "  The  Gar- 
den of  Soul-Sympathy  "  the  composer  rhapsodizes 
"  in  soul-knit  '  gladness,'  and  harmonious  visions 
of  wondrous  colour  move  majestically  over  the 
ear."  Um,  perhaps.  Here  is  an  example  of  Mr. 
Scott's  "poetry": 

[17] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

"  Sounds  of  colourless  dreams,  of  strange  vague- 
ness telling: 
Immaculate  music,  heralding  the  life  of  sighs, 
Bells  across  the  lone  lassitude,  rising,  rolling,  end- 
lessly swelling 
Over  the  wasteland  —  solitude  lost  in  the  clear 
chaotic  skies." 

It  may  be  noted  that  Mr.  Scott  is  troubled  with 
the  mania  for  alliteration.  Such  other  examples 
as  "  mournful  melodies,"  "  shadows  of  silence," 
"  a  far-off  flute  has  faded,"  "  dreamful  daffodil," 
"  ambient  arms,"  "  future  fiends,"  dribble  through 
his  work.  It  is  perhaps  a  coincidence  that  Mr. 
Scott's  alphabetical  position  on  the  poetry  shelf 
lies  half  way  between  Laurence  Hope  and  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox. 

In  prose  Mr.  Scott  has  written  a  book  called 
**  The  Philosophy  of  Modernism."  For  a  chapter 
or  two  he  presents  some  interesting  ideas,  though 
clothed  in  a  style  which  in  no  sense  could  be  de- 
scribed as  literature.  His  essay  on  Percy  Grain- 
ger is  really  significant.  Then  he  maunders 
through  an  attack  on  the  critics  which  is  neither 
clearly  thought  nor  clearly  expressed  and  which 
contains  such  gems  of  opinion  as  this,  "  All  the 
same,  it  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  the  great  spir- 
[18] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

itual  geniuses  and  adepts  of  the  world  have  never 
condemned  and  denounced  their  fellow  creatures  or 
the  works  of  their  fellow-creatures :  and  to  take 
one  sublime  instance  —  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  etc., 
etc.,  etc."  Cyril  Scott  is  not  one  of  the  great 
composers  and  I  would  not  have  lingered  so  long 
over  his  case  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  he  offers 
one  of  the  most  typical  examples  of  the  musician 
as  writer. 

William  Wallace,  the  composer  of  Villon  and 
other  tone-poems  for  orchestra,  has  written  a  book 
called  "  The  Threshold  of  Music  "  which,  I  have 
been  assured,  is  a  good  book,  but  although  it  has 
been  lying  around  the  house  within  easy  reach 
for  at  least  two  years,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
read  it.  Edward  MacDowelPs  lectures,  delivered 
at  Columbia  University,  collected  in  a  volume  en- 
titled "  Critical  and  Historical  Essays,"  might 
best  be  described  by  the  convenient  epithet,  piffle, 
pedantic  piffle  at  that.  It  is  only  fair  to  state 
that  MacDowell  himself  was  not  responsible  for 
their  publication  and  probably  would  have  been 
violently  opposed  to  it. 

Musicians,  as  a  rule,  are  even  satisfied  to  set 

bad  librettos  when  they  write  operas  because  they 

have  no  true  appreciation  of  good  poetry,  good 

drama.     Most  opera  books  rank  very  low  under 

[19] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

the  head  of  literature  and  some  of  the  greatest 
operas  have  been  composed  to  some  of  the  worst 
books.  Weber,  for  instance,  found  Oberon  inspir- 
ing and  Mozart  made  masterpieces  of  Don  Gio- 
vanni and  The  Magic  Flute,  while  Verdi  lavished 
some  of  his  best  music  on  the  texts  of  La  Forza  del 
Destine  and  II  Trovatore. 

There  are  certain  exceptions,  however.  Berlioz 
was  a  good  writer.  He  might  have  emerged  a  fam- 
ous figure  if  he  had  simply  given  us  his  "  Me- 
moires  "  and  his  criticism  is  stylized  and  expert, 
sparkling  with  biting  phrases  and  trenchant 
words.  In  "  A  Travers  Chants,"  "  Les  Grotesques 
de  la  Musique,"  *'  Les  Soirees  d'Orchestre,"  his 
collected  journalism  in  short,  he  wielded  a  delight- 
fully nervous  pen.  His  prose,  indeed,  is  better  on 
the  whole  than  his  music.  Perhaps  this  is  the  ex- 
planation of  his  power  in  this  direction.  It  is 
really  a  pity  he  turned  to  tone.  Schumann,  too, 
was  far  from  being  a  bad  writer,  although  he  by  no 
means  stands  in  a  class  with  Berlioz  in  this  re- 
spect. Still  his  writing  is  simple  and  natural  and 
radiates  a  certain  happy  enchantment.  Occa- 
sionally, indeed,  the  man  lights  on  a  sublime 
phrase.  However  even  his  Trdumerei  is  better 
than  all  the  two  volumes  of  his  collected  prose 
works.  The  indefatigable  Liszt  found  time  for 
[20] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

many  matters  in  his  long  life,  love  affairs,  piano 
playing,  composing,  transcription,  pushing  Wag- 
ner, getting  Berlioz's  Benvenuto  Celli/ni  produced 
at  Weimar,  and  even  for  the  writing  of  a  number 
of  books.  None  of  these  can  be  considered  a  lit- 
erary masterpiece,  but  the  "  Life  of  Chopin  "  ^ 
contains  passages  of  great  charm.  To  James 
Huneker  the  most  eloquent  page  describes  "  an 
evening  in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  for  it  demon- 
strates the  Hungarian's  literary  gifts  and  feeling 
for  the  right  phrase.  This  description  of  Cho- 
pin's apartment  '  invaded  by  surprise '  has  a 
hypnotizing  effect  on  me.  The  very  furnishings  of 
the  chamber  seem  vocal  under  Liszt's  fanciful 
pen."  Personally  I  prefer  the  pages  devoted  to 
the  polonaise.  Liszt's  book  on  the  gipsies,  too,  is 
engaging  although  one  is  permitted  to  disagree 
with  the  facts.  .  .  .  And  now  we  come  down  to  a 
modem  musician-writer,  Claude  Achille  Debussy. 
Curiously  enough  this  French  composer  was  rather 
an  adept  with  the  pen.  He  had  a  penetrating 
sense  of  irony  and  he  was  not  above  epigram.  In 
1901  he  became  music  critic  for  the  "  Revue 
Blanche."     Two  years  later  he  held  the  same  po- 

1  Liszt  told  Frederick  Niecks  that  the  enlarged  edition  of 
his  "  Chopin  "  was  actually  written  by  the  Princess  Wittgen- 
stein.    See  "  Programme  Music,"  p.  315. 

[21] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

sition  on  the  "  Gil  Bias."  In  1903  he  went  to 
London  to  write  his  impressions  of  Wagner's 
Tetralogy  for  "  Gil  Bias."  Passages  from  this 
review  have  become  b3nvords.  Witness  the  follow- 
ing: "How  insufferable  these  people  in  helmets 
and  wild-beast  skins  become  by  the  time  the  fourth 
evening  comes  round.  Remember  that  at  each 
and  every  appearance  they  are  accompanied  by 
their  damned  leit-jnotive.  There  are  some  who 
even  sing  it  themselves.  It  is  as  if  a  harmless 
lunatic  were  to  present  you  with  his  visiting  card 
while  he  declaimed  lyrically  what  was  inscribed 
thereon."  This  was  one  of  the  earliest  pricks  in 
the  weaknesses  of  the  Wagner  bubble.  Here  is 
more  Debussy  iconoclasm:  he  calls  Gluck  a 
"  pedant,"  Bach  "  that  worthy  man,"  Beethoven 
"  a  deaf  old  man,"  Berlioz  "  a  monster,"  Cesar 
Franck  "  a  Belgian,"  Massenet  "  our  most  no- 
torious master " ;  of  the  songs  of  Schubert  he 
says,  "  They  are  inoffensive ;  they  have  the  odour 
of  bureau  drawers  of  provincial  old  maids, —  ends 
of  faded  ribbon  —  flowers  for  ever  faded  and  dried 
—  out  of  date  photographs !  Only  they  repeat 
the  same  effect  for  interminable  stanzas  and  at  the 
end  of  the  third  one  wonders  if  one  could  not  set 
to  music  our  national  Paul  Delmet " ;  "  one 
stumbles  on  Mendelssohn "  in  Schumann's 
[22] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

Faust;  Grieg's  music  gives  him  "  the  charming  and 
bizarre  sensation  of  eating  a  pink  bonbon  stuffed 
with  snow  " ;  Saint-Saens's  Henry  VIII  is  "  a 
grand  historical  opera."  All  of  this  is  witty  and 
some  of  it  is  sound.  However,  according  to  J.  G. 
Prod'homme,  Debussy  did  not  write  everything  he 
signed.  He  ascribes  an  article  entitled  "  Enfin 
Seuls !  "  which  appeared  under  Debussy's  name  in 
"  S.  I.  M."  in  1915  to  a  "  disciple  "  and  he  also 
informs  us  that  the  score  for  d'Annunzio's 
Mystere  de  Saint  Sebastien  was  only  finished  on 
the  day  agreed  upon  by  the  collaboration  of  other 
"  disciples,"  very  familiar  with  the  Debussy  man- 
ner. 

On  these  four  men  any  case  for  musicians  as 
writers  of  prose  must  be  rested.  Berlioz,  it  must 
be  admitted,  stands  the  test.  Schumann  and 
Liszt  as  authors  would  be  completely  forgotten 
(are,  indeed,  more  or  less  forgotten)  were  it  not 
for  their  music.  Debussy's  criticisms  have  not 
even  been  collected  in  book  form,  although  no 
doubt  they  will  be. 


Ill 


And  now  let  us  pass  on  to  the  painters.     Mr. 
Ellis  himself  reminds  us  that  "  Leonardo,  who  was 
[23] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

indeed  great  in  everything,  is  among  the  few  great 
writers  of  Italian  prose.  Blake  was  first  and 
above  all  an  artist  in  design,  but  at  the  best  he 
had  so  magnificent  a  mastery  of  words  that  be- 
side it  all  but  the  rare  best  of  his  work  in  design 
looks  thin  and  artificial.  Rossetti  was  drawing 
and  painting  all  his  life,  and  yet,  as  has  now  be- 
come clear,  it  is  only  in  language,  verse  and  prose 
alike,  that  he  is  a  supreme  master.  Fromentin 
was  a  painter  for  his  contemporaries,  yet  his  paint- 
ings are  now  quite  uninteresting,  while  the  few 
books  he  wrote  belong  to  great  literature,  to  linger 
over  with  perpetual  delight.  Poetry  seemed  to 
play  but  a  small  part  in  the  life  of  Michelangelo, 
yet  his  sonnets  stand  today  by  the  side  of  his 
drawings  and  marbles.  Rodin  has  all  his  life  been 
passionately  immersed  in  plastic  art ;  he  has  never 
written  and  seldom  talks;  yet  whenever  his  more 
intimate  disciples,  a  Judith  Cladel  or  a  Paul  Gsell, 
have  set  down  the  things  he  utters,  they  are  found 
to  be  among  the  most  vital,  fascinating,  and  pro- 
found sayings  in  the  world. 

"  Even  a  bad  artist  with  the  brush  may  be  on 
the  road  to  become  a  good  artist  with  the  pen. 
Euripides  was  not  only  a  soldier,  he  had  tried  to  be 
a  painter  before  he  became  a  supreme  tragic  dram- 
atist, and,  to  come  down  to  modern  times,  Hazlitt 
[24] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

and  Thackeray,  both  fine  artists  with  the  pen,  had 
first  been  poor  artists  with  the  brush.  .  .  .  The 
list  of  good  artists  and  bad  artists  who  have  been 
masters  of  words,  from  Vasari  and  earlier  onward, 
is  long.  One  sets  down  at  random  the  names  of 
Reynolds,  Northcote,  Delacroix,  Woolner,  Car- 
riere,  Leighton,  Gauguin,  Beardsley,  Du  Maurier, 
Besnard,  to  which  doubtless  it  might  be  easy  to 
add  a  host  of  others." 

Mr.  Ellis  has  forgotten  many  names,  that  of 
Whistler,  for  example,  of  whom  Max  Beerbohm 
says  (in  "Yet  Again"):  "He  was  a  born 
writer.  He  wrote,  in  his  way  perfectly;  and  his 
way  was  his  own,  and  the  secret  of  it  died  with 
him.  .  .  .  His  style  never  falters.  The  silhouette 
of  no  sentence  is  ever  blurred.  Every  sentence  is 
ringing  with  a  clear  vocal  cadence.  .  .  .  Read  any 
page  of  '  The  Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies  ' 
and  you  will  hear  a  voice  in  it,  and  see  a  face  in  it, 
and  see  gestures  in  it.  .  .  .  There  are  in  England, 
at  this  moment,  a  few  people  to  whom  prose  ap- 
peals as  an  art ;  but  none  of  them,  I  think,  has  yet 
done  justice  to  Whistler's  prose.  None  has  taken 
it  with  the  seriousness  it  deserves.  I  am  not  sur- 
prised. When  a  man  can  express  himself  through 
two  media,  people  tend  to  take  him  lightly  in  his 
use  of  the  medium  to  which  he  devotes  the  lesser 
[25] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

time  and  energy,  even  though  he  use  that  medium 
not  less  admirably  than  the  other,  and  even  though 
they  themselves  care  about  it  more  than  they  care 
about  the  other.  .  .  .  Had  Rossetti  not  been  pri- 
marily a  poet  the  expert  in  painting  would  have 
acquired  long  ago  his  present  penetration  into  the 
peculiar  value  of  Rossetti's  painting." 

There  can  be  no  personal  plaint  in  this  essay 
although  Max  Beerbohm  himself  is  "  a  man  who 
can  express  himself  through  two  media,"  for  no 
one,  I  daresay,  has  attempted  to  imply  dissatisfac- 
tion with  either  form  of  expression  in  this  case. 
Max's  delicate  and  fantastic  sense  of  caricature 
plays  as  happily  through  "  The  Happy  Hypo- 
crite," "  A  Christmas  Garland,"  and  "  Zuleika 
Dobson  "  as  it  does  through  his  drawings  of  the 
Rentree  of  Mr.  George  Moore  i/nto  Chelsea^ 
Mr,  Thomas  Hardy  composing  a  lyric,  and 
Mr.  Joseph  Pennell  thinking  of  the  old  *ti/n. 
He  turns  from  one  art  to  the  other  with  equal 
facility.  Like  Blake  and  Rossetti  he  has  made  his 
two  careers  run  parallel.  Du  Maurier,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  was  sib  to  these.  To  be  sure  he  be- 
gan to  write  late  in  life  and  after  he  had  pro- 
duced "  Peter  Ibbetson  "  he  devoted  less  attention 
to  the  social  drawings  on  which  he  had  founded  so 
brilliant  a  career  in  "  Punch."  Nevertheless  he 
[26] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

illustrated  his  own  novels  and  who  can  think  of 
Peter,  of  Trilby,  of  Svengali  without  thinking  of 
Du  Maurier's  drawings,  so  close  was  the  intimacy 
between  his  two  pens  ?  Aubrey  Beardsley ,  too,  ran 
his  twin  talents  side  by  side,  although  he  gave 
himself  more  whole-heartedly  to  his  drawing.  Yet 
the  fragment,  "  Under  the  Hill  "  indicates  a  sure 
and  fantastic  genius  for  a  special  kind  of  writing, 
as  special  in  its  way  as  his  painting  and  wholly 
analogous  to  it  in  spirit.  Jacques  Blanche  has 
since  his  youth  been  both  a  prolific  writer  and  a 
prolific  painter.  His  fame  as  a  painter  has  per- 
haps outdistanced  his  fame  as  a  writer  because  of 
the  celebrity  of  his  models.  He  has  painted  very 
nearly  every  person  of  importance  who  has  been 
in  Paris  for  the  past  thirty  years  from  George 
Moore  to  Nijinsky.  The  best  of  his  paintings 
probably  are  the  self-portrait  in  the  Uffizi  in  Flor- 
ence and  the  picture  of  the  artist  Thaulow  and  his 
family  which  hangs  in  the  Luxembourg  Gallery  in 
Paris.  On  the  whole  he  writes  better  than  he 
paints ;  his  essay  on  Degas  is  probably  the  best 
which  exists.  Wyndham  Lewis,  too,  turns  from 
canvas  to  paper  with  infinite  ease ;  so  does  Gordon 
Craig,  while  Santiago  Rusinol,  the  Spaniard,  di- 
vides his  time  between  painting  and  writing  plays. ^ 
1  To  these  names  may  be  added  those  of  Oliver  Herford, 

[27] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

Often,  however,  as  Mr.  Ellis  has  suggested  was 
the  case  with  Thackeray  and  Hazlitt,  the  bad 
painter  takes  to  writing.  Thomas  Hardy,  for  ex- 
ample, began  his  career  as  an  architect,  an  allied 
art,  and  he  has  used  his  knowledge  of  the  technique 
of  this  art  very  concretely  in  his  books.  The 
hero  of  "  A  Laodicean  "  is  not  the  only  architect 
in  Mr.  Hardy's  works.  Hardy,  indeed,  illus- 
trated his  own  "  Wessex  Poems."  ^  George  Moore 
was  a  painter  and  it  was  while  he  was  studying  his 
art  in  Paris  that  he  imbibed  much  of  the  at- 
mosphere that  is  so  essential  a  part  of  his  books. 
We  owe  to  this  phase  of  his  life  such  works  as 
"  The  Confessions  of  a  Young  Man,"  and  "  Me- 
moirs of  My  Dead  Life,"  but  could  such  a  passage 
as  the  description  of  the  trees  in  "  A  Story  Tel- 
ler's Holiday  "  have  been  written  by  any  but  a 
painter.'*  I  hardly  think  so.  Holbrook  Jackson 
tells  us  that  George  Bernard  Shaw  as  a  boy  never 
wanted  to  write.  He  wished  to  draw  and  Michel- 
Howard  Pyle,  Philip  Thicknesse,  Am61ie  Rives,  Rollo  Pe- 
ters, Kahlil  Gibran,  the  Syrian  poet-painter,  Mina  Loy, 
Marsden   Hartley,  Charles  Demuth,  and  Lee  Simonson. 

1  W.  B.  Yeats  intended  to  follow  his  father's  example  and 
become  a  painter.  He  went  to  art  school  in  Dublin.  So 
did  M.  Rudyard  Kipling  illustrated  his  own  "Just  So 
Stories."  Robert  W.  Chambers  and  Roland  Pertwee  were 
once  painters.  Samuel  Butler  was  not  only  a  painter  but 
a  composer  as  well! 

[28] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

angelo  was  his  boyish  ideal.  Gautier  had  the  in- 
tention of  becoming  a  painter  when  he  first  went 
to  Paris.  He  entered  the  studio  of  Rioult  for  a 
period.  "  He  had  the  painter's  eye,"  writes 
Huneker,  "  the  quick  retentive  vision,  the  colour 
sense,  above  all  the  sense  of  composition."  The 
creator  of  "  Une  Nuit  de  Cleopatre  "  was  certainly 
a  painter,  and  when  Fokine  arranged  this  picture- 
poem  as  a  Russian  ballet  he  had  but  to  fol- 
low the  colour-suggestion  of  the  painter-poet. 
Huysmans  was  a  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  Dutch 
painters,  one  of  whom,  Cornelius  Huysmans  of 
Mechlin,  has  a  certain  fame  among  the  lesser  land- 
scape artists  of  the  great  period.  Huneker 
writes,  "  Joris-Karl  Huysmans  should  have  been 
a  painter ;  his  indubitable  gift  for  form  and  colour 
were  by  some  trick  of  circumstance  transposed  to 
literature."  Remy  de  Gourmont  called  him  an 
eye.  His  description  of  the  carcass  of  a  cow 
hanging  outside  a  butcher  shop  is  certainly  the 
work  of  a  painter:  "  As  in  a  hothouse,  a  marvel- 
lous vegetation  flourished  in  the  carcass.  Veins 
shot  out  on  every  side  like  the  trails  of  bind-weed ; 
dishevelled  branch-work  extended  itself  along  the 
body,  an  efflorescence  of  entrails  unfurled  their 
violet-tinted  corallas,  and  big  clusters  of  fat  stood 
out,  a  sharp  white,  against  the  red  medley  of  quiv- 
[29] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

ering  flesh."  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  particular- 
ize :  "  A  Rebours,"  "  La  Cathedrale,"  "  La  Bas  " 
are  all  painted  from  cover  to  cover.  .  .  .  Octave 
Mirbeau  painted  in  his  moments  of  leisure  and  so 
great  an  artist  as  Claude  Monet  looked  upon  his 
brush-work  with  favour.  He  owned  a  very  large 
collection  of  pictures  by  Monet,  Renoir,  Cezanne, 
Pissarro,  Van  Gogh,  Rodin,  and  others  which  have 
been  sold  since  his  death.  Turn  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  garden  in  "  Le  Jardin  des  Supplices  " 
and  you  will  see  how  he  turned  his  other  talent  to 
account.  With  some  writers  the  analogy  between 
writing  and  painting  becomes  perfectly  clear. 
It  is  so  with  Gautier  and  Huysmans.  Beerbohm 
says  of  Whistler,  "  Yes,  that  painting  and  that 
writing  are  marvellously  akin ;  and  such  diff^erences 
as  you  will  see  in  them  are  superficial  merely."  It 
is  obvious  that  Joseph  Hergesheimer  approaches 
his  work  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  painter.  He 
selects  and  describes  exactly  as  an  artist  in  design 
might  select  and  describe.  He  turns  to  his  palette 
for  a  touch  of  cobalt  blue  or  yellow  ochre  ex- 
actly as  a  painter  might  turn  to  his  palette.  This 
characteristic  of  Hergesheimer  is  so  marked  that 
several  sagacious  reviewers  have  noted  that  "  Java 
Head  "  and  "  The  Three  Black  Pennys  "  are  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  painted.  The  facts  in 
[30] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

the  case  are  that  Hergesheimer  began  his  career  as 
a  painter,  painted  for  years  before  he  began  to 
write  at  all. 


IV 


Inspiration,  as  it  affects  the  artist,  is  a  subject 
I  do  not  approach  without  the  proper  dread. 
Either  it  is  something  mystic,  something  entirely 
beyond  human  ken,  something  "  ecstatic,"  as 
Arthur  Machen  would  have  it,  or  else  it  becomes, 
in  matter  of  fact  English,  something  very  near 
the  ludicrous.  Mr.  James  Branch  Cabell  shows  us 
with  withering  irony  in  "  The  Cream  of  the  Jest  " 
how  a  middle-aged,  pudgy,  greyish-haired,  com- 
monplace sort  of  man,  whose  conversation  seem- 
ingly never  rises  above  the  most  banal  level, 
derives  the  inspiration  for  the  most  fantastic  ro- 
mance from  his  equally  commonplace  wife  and  the 
broken  cover  of  a  cold-cream  jar.  The  mystery 
of  the  procedure  is  emphasized  by  the  obvious  fact 
that  "  The  Cream  of  the  Jest "  is  sufficiently 
scandent,  although  in  style,  manner,  and  matter,  it 
is  contradictory  to  a  degree  with  which  no  satis- 
factory comparison  comes  readily  to  mind.  Mr. 
Cabell  undoubtedly  writes  very  personal  books, 
but  in  his  own  way  he  comes  nearer  perhaps  to  the 
[31] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

solution  of  certain  problems  of  the  author  than 
any  one  else. 

And  here  we  have,  perhaps,  the  first  glimmer  of 
understanding.  For  Mr.  Cabell's  Felix  Kennas- 
ton  depends  on  his  wife,  the  cover  of  the  cold- 
cream  jar,  and  other  metis  books.  Even  on  strag- 
gling downright  stupid  conversation  about  the 
weather.  In  Arthur  Machen's  "  The  Hill  of 
Dreams,"  Lucian  Taylor,  the  author-hero,  evolves 
a  complete  and  mystic  comprehension  of  all  the 
manifestations  of  sex  from  the  accidental  embrace 
of  a  farm  girl.  The  author,  the  painter,  are  thus 
reduced  to  models,  however  far-fetched  and  ridic- 
ulous the  models  may  appear  in  the  light  cast  by 
the  finished  work.  George  Sand  indubitably  loved 
all  her  lovers  but  somewhere  in  the  back  of  her 
head  she  realized  that  their  ultimate  purpose  was 
"  copy."  Some  one  once  asked  Maurice  Maeter- 
linck what  had  been  his  inspiration  for  the  con- 
struction of  Pelleas  et  Melisande  and  his  reply 
was,  "  I  was  writing  a  piece  that  suited  my  wife." 
Cecil  Forsythe,  in  his  book  "  Nationalism  in  Mu- 
sic "  educes  the  interesting  theory  that  a  great 
sea-power  never  produces  great  musicians,  but 
that  authors  and  painters  flourish  under  trium- 
phant mercantile,  social,  and  political  regimes. 

Painters,  writers,  draw  their  material  from  the 
[32] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

world.  They  must  mingle  with  men,  understand 
and  see  life,  no  matter  how  far  removed  from  life 
their  finished  art  may  be.  Art,  it  may  be  stated 
categorically,  is  certainly  not  a  reproduction  of 
nature,  and  yet,  without  nature,  or  some  human 
aspect  of  it,  the  painter,  the  writer  are  helpless. 
Perhaps  you  have  never  seen  a  Monet  hay-stack 
in  a  real  field,  but  unless  such  a  thing  as  a  hay- 
stack existed,  unless  the  sun  had  lighted  that  hay- 
stack, the  picture  would  have  been  impossible.  It 
is  not  important  or  essential  that  Leonardo's 
Monna  Lisa  should  exactly  reproduce  the  effect  of 
the  model,  but  if  such  a  thing  as  a  woman  did  not 
breathe  in  the  world,  the  picture  never  could  have 
been  painted.  Machen  detects  his  ideal  quality  of 
ecstasy  at  the  highest  degree  in  Homer,  Rabelais, 
and  Cervantes,  all  men  of  action  and  wide 
experience.  Indeed  he  points  out  that  one 
of  the  reasons  why  "  The  Pickwick  Papers " 
is  not  as  great  as  the  "  Odyssey  "  is  because  Dick- 
ens was  brought  up  in  Camden  Town.  It  is 
not  carelessly  then  that  Remy  de  Gourmont 
called  Huysmans  "  an  eye  "  and  his  dictum  that 
whatever  is  deeply  thought  is  well  written  is  cer- 
tainly just.  Havelock  Ellis  adds  that  whatever  is 
deeply  observed  is  well  said.  The  artist  in  design, 
he  continues  to  point  out,  is  by  the  very  nature  of 
[33] 


A  Theme  by   Havelock  Ellis 

his  work  compelled  to  observe  deeply,  precisely, 
beautifully.  He  is  never  able  to  revolve  in  a 
vacuum,  or  flounder  in  a  morass,  or  run  after  a 
mirage.  So  when  he  takes  up  his  pen,  by  train- 
ing, by  acquired  instinct,  he  still  follows  with  the 
new  instrument,  deeply,  precisely,  beautifully,  the 
same  mystery  of  Nature. 

The  musician,  whose  art  is  the  most  mystic,  the 
most  profound,  the  most  "  ecstatic  "  of  any,  sim- 
ply because  it  deals  with  clang-tints  and  not  with 
more  definite  symbols,  is  not,  as  Cecil  Forsythe 
shows  us,  inspired  by  great  deeds,  by  political  con- 
fusion, by  mercantile  progress,  by  social  inter- 
course. War  never  produces  great  music  and 
England  and  America  have  produced  less  good 
music  than  Finland  and  Scandinavia,  not  to  speak 
of  Bohemia  and  Italy.  The  great  Beethoven  wan- 
dered alone,  and  he  wrote  some  of  his  finest  music 
after  he  became  stone-deaf.  The  musical  artist, 
indeed,  shut  up  in  a  garret,  may  derive  his  master- 
piece simply  through  the  process  of  introspection. 
There  is  no  need  for  him  to  read ;  an  illiterate  com- 
poser is  a  possible  figure.  "  The  song,  the  fugue, 
the  sonata  have  absolutely  no  analogues  in  the 
world  of  Nature,"  writes  W.  H.  Hadow.  "  Their 
basis  is  psychological,  not  physical,  and  in  them 
the  artist  is  in  direct  touch  with  his  idea,  and  pre- 
[34] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

sents  it  to  us,  as  it  were,  first  hand.  Given  sound 
as  the  plastic  medium.  Music  asks  nothing  more: 
it  creates  its  subjects  by  the  spontaneous  activity 
of  the  mind.''  And  W.  F.  Apthorp  says,  "  The 
bonds  which  hold  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  Poetry 
fast  to  Nature  are  far  tougher  and  of  more  inex- 
orable grip  than  any  connection  discoverable  be- 
tween Nature  and  Music.  .  .  .  We  may  safely  as- 
sert that,  though  a  certain  modicum  of  Realism, 
or  truth  to  Nature,  is  indispensable  to  the  artistic 
status  of  Poetry,  Painting,  or  Sculpture,  Music 
can  perfectly  well  do  without  it;  also  that  such 
modicum  of  Realism  —  when  present  in  Music  — 
can  not  be  regarded  as  any  true  measure  of  her 
artistic  status." 

It  may  be  regarded  as  a  significant  fact  that  the 
four  composers  whom  I  previously  selected  as 
types  of  the  fairly  successful  musician-writer  all 
resorted  to  this  "  modicum  of  realism  "  in  their 
music.  Every  one  of  them  was  what  is  known  as  a 
"  literary  "  composer.  Every  one  of  them  wrote 
"  program  music."  Every  one  of  them  leaned 
on  Nature,  books,  and  painting  for  his  inspiration. 
Not  only  was  Schumann's  Carneval  so  inspired ;  at 
least  two  of  his  symphonies  had  a  definite  starting 
point  somewhere  outside  music  itself.  Berlioz  and 
Liszt  are  notorious  cases.  It  is  only  necessary 
[35] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

to  recall  the  titles  of  Berlioz's  symphonies,  Fan- 
tastique,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Harold  m  Italy  or  of 
Liszt's  ^  tone-poems  (a  form  which  he  invented) 
Les  Preludes,  Tasso,  Mazeppa,  to  realize  that  al- 
though music  was  the  end  to  them  it  was  not 
always  the  means.  With  Debussy  it  was  the  same : 
VApres^midi  d^wn  Faune  had  its  beginning  in  Mal- 
larme;  La  Mer,  Nocturnes,  Iberia,  in  Nature  her- 
self! And  it  may  be  generally  observed,  indeed, 
that  musicians  who  use  the  pen  to  write  prose  or 
poetry,  are  usually  men  who  go  outside  music 
itself  for  the  inspiration  for  their  music.  This  is 
as  true  of  Richard  Wagner,  Cyril  Scott,  Edward 
M acDowell,  as  it  is  of  Liszt  and  Berlioz. 

But  what  about  rhythm  .^^  What  about  the  so- 
called  "  musical  quality  "  in  good  literature?  In 
"  The  Critic  as  Artist,"  Oscar  Wilde  says,  "  Since 
the  introduction  of  printing  and  the  fatal  develop- 
ment of  the  habit  of  reading  amongst  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  there  has  been  a  tendency  to 
appeal  more  and  more  to  the  eye  and  less  and  less 
to  the  ear,  which  is  really  the  sense  which,  from 
the  standpoint  of  pure  art,  it  should  seek  to  please, 
and  by  whose  canons  of  pleasure  it  should  abide 

1  Frederick  Niecks  says  of  Liszt:  "  Except  that  it  is  more 
logical,  his  musical  style  is  a  pretty  exact  likeness  of  his 
literary  style." 

[36] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

always.  Even  the  work  of  Mr.  Pater  ...  is 
often  far  more  like  a  piece  of  mosaic  than  a  pas- 
sage in  music.  We,  in  fact,  have  made  writing  a 
definite  mode  of  composition  and  have  located  it  as 
a  form  of  design.  The  Greeks,  upon  the  other 
hand,  regarded  writing  simply  as  a  means  of 
chronicling.  Their  test  was  always  the  spoken 
word  in  its  musical  and  rhetorical  relation.  The 
voice  was  the  medium  and  the  ear  the  critic.  .  .  . 
When  Milton  could  no  longer  write  he  began  to 
sing.  Who  could  match  the  measures  of  Comus 
with  the  measures  of  Samson  Agonistes  or  of 
Paradise  Lost  or  Regained?  When  he  became 
blind  he  composed  as  everybody  should  compose, 
with  the  voice  purely.  .  .   ." 

This  is  all  very  well;  perhaps  the  voice  was 
once  the  means  of  composition;  perhaps  the 
Greek  musicians  could  compose  in  words  as  well  as 
tone.  We  know  very  little  about  them.  Nowadays 
in  Wilde's  own  phrase,  "  We  have  made  writing 
a  definite  mode  of  composition  and  have  located  it 
as  a  form  of  design."  .  .  .  There  are  certainly 
writers  of  today  who  make  an  especial  effort  to 
write  prose  that  will  read  aloud  well.  I  believe 
that  Henry  James  dictated  certain  of  his  novels 
with  this  idea  in  mind.  But  this  rhythmical  qual- 
ity we  note  in  writing  is  perhaps  nearer  to  the 
[37] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

rhythmical  quality  we  note  in  painting  to  that  we 
note  in  music.  Balance  and  a  sense  of  proportion, 
light  and  shade,  all  these  qualities  are  as  instinc- 
tive to  a  writer  as  they  are  to  a  painter.  He 
places  a  word  as  the  painter  places  an  object  or  a 
point  on  the  canvas  where  it  may  catch  the  light 
and  offer  contrast  to  another  word  or  point  or 
object.  Balance,  light  and  shade,  sense  of  pro- 
portion are  all  part  of  the  musician's  jargon  too. 
But  if  the  rhythmical  quality  we  note  in  music  is 
identical  with  the  rhythmical  quality  of  prose  or 
poetry,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  musician 
creates  rhythm  with  pure  tone,  sounds  whereas  in 
any  good  prose  or  poetry  sense  and  definite  mean- 
ing must  play  their  part.  Most  of  us  are  unlike 
Madame  de  Stael  who  delighted  in  the  melody  of 
verse,  and  demanded  nothing  more.  She  would 
read  a  favourite  specimen  and  then  declare,  "  That 
is  what  I  call  poetry !  It  is  delicious,  and  so  much 
the  more  so  because  it  does  not  convey  a  single  idea 
tome!" 

But  probably  the  best  and  truest  reason  why 
musicians  cannot  write  words  is  definitely  a  Puri- 
tanic reason.  Of  all  artists  the  musician  is  the 
only  one  who  can  express  himself  freely.  In  a 
casual  essay  James  Huneker  once  observed,  "  Be- 
cause of  its  opportunities  for  the  expansion  of  the 
[38] 


A  Theme  by  Havelock  Ellis 

soul  music  has  ever  attracted  the  strong  free  sons 
of  earth.  It  is,  par  excellence,  the  art  masculine. 
The  profoundest  truths,  the  most  blasphemous 
ideas,  may  be  incorporated  within  the  walls  of  a 
symphony,  and  the  police  none  the  wiser."  The 
painter  even  less  than  the  writer  can  reproduce  all 
that  he  really  sees.  Nor  can  the  sculptor  do  more 
than  the  painter.  These  artists,  then,  find  them- 
selves free,  unrestricted  in  the  medium  of  words, 
because  hitherto  they  have  observed  and  felt  deeply 
so  much  more  than  they  could  express  on  canvas 
or  in  marbU.  But  the  musician  feels  bound  and 
tied  when  he  is  forced  to  use  words.  He  cannot 
say  as  much  (nor  can  he  say  it  as  vaguely)  as  he 
can  in  his  own  music.  If  a  law  is  passed  as  pend- 
ent to  the  now  celebrated  Eighteenth  Amendment 
(and  very  probably  it  will  be)  making  it  a  crimi- 
nal offence  to  mention  vodka  or  absinthe  or  even 
beer  in  a  book,  or  to  paint  a  picture  in  which  people 
may  be  seen  to  be  drinking,  the  musician  may  still 
compose  bacchanales  and  brindisi ;  he  may  be  as 
abandonedly  Dionysian,  as  intoxicated  and  intoxi- 
cating as  he  pleases.  Nobody  is  going  to  prohibit 
performances  of  the  Seventh  Symphony.  The  cream 
of  the  jest  is  that  our  national  anthem.  The  Star 
Spangled  Barmer  was  originally  a  drinking  song ! 
February  21,  1919, 

[39] 


A  Note  on   Philip  Thicknesse 

**  All  books  save  those  which  subserve  some  fact 
such  as,  say,  ferro-concrete  or  the  migration  of  swal- 
lows or  the  differential  calculus,  and  even,  perhaps, 
these  also,  are  about  persons.  The  best  boohs  are 
about  one  person  —  the  author." 

Holbrook  Jackson. 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 


WHAT  a  terrible  fate  awaits  a  library 
when  its  master  dies!  The  penniless 
widow  and  her  children,  the  bereaved 
pets,  cats,  dogs,  monkeys,  and  parrots,  stand  a 
better  chance  than  the  beloved  books  which  re- 
main to  mourn  their  erstwhile  owner.  Edmond  de 
Goncourt  considered  the  problem  and  left  the  fol- 
lowing solution  of  it  in  his  will :  "  My  wish  is  that 
my  drawings,  my  prints,  my  curiosities,  my  books 
—  in  a  word,  these  things  of  art  which  have  been 
the  joy  of  my  life  —  shall  not  be  consigned  to  the 
cold  tomb  of  a  museum  and  subjected  to  the  stupid 
glance  of  the  careless  passerby ;  but  I  require  that 
they  shall  be  dispersed  under  the  hammer  of  the 
auctioneer,  so  that  the  pleasure  which  the  acquire- 
ment of  each  one  of  them  has  given  me  shall  be 
given  again  in  each  case  to  some  inheritor  of  my 
own  tastes."  .  .  .  Goncourt  was  certain  that  each 
of  his  treasures  would  reach  the  man  who  loved  it 
best.  I  would  not  be.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of 
sending  my  cats  or  my  books  to  the  auction  block. 
My  first  edition  of  Oscar  Wilde's  "  Salome,"  with 
its  faded  silver  and  purple  cover,  printed  in  the 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

Rue  du  Dragon  in  Paris,  and  now  bound  in  white 
vellum  by  Vittorio  de  Toldo  in  Venice,  would  surely 
find  an  admirer  or  two.  So  would  Champfleury's 
"  Les  Chats,"  the  most  sympathetic  and  profound 
of  the  many  cat  books,  embellished  with  hundreds 
of  drawings,  including  several  by  the  Japanese 
Hokusai  and  a  strange  Russian  poster  depicting 
gleeful  rats  and  mice  bearing  a  dead  puss  on  a 
cart  to  her  grave,  but  more  than  these  an  etching 
of  a  cat  among  flowers  by  Manet,  who  also  de- 
signed the  poster  for  this  book,  representing  the 
meeting  (and  impending  doom  for  one  of  them) 
of  two  male  felines  on  a  chimney-potted  roof-top. 
This  poster  is  now  as  rare  as  copies  of  the  first 
edition  of  "  Sister  Carrie."  .  .  .  Nor  do  I  worry 
over  the  fate  of  the  English  edition  of  "  A 
Story  Teller's  Holiday,"  nor  over  that  of 
several  of  George  Moore's  earlier  works,  orig- 
inally the  property  of  James  Huneker,  who,  as 
is  his  wont,  has  plentifully  supplied  the  margins 
with  mirth-provoking  comments.  .  .  .  But  there 
are  books  on  my  shelves  whose  mere  titles  will  con- 
vey nothing  to  the  stolid  purchaser  in  the  auction 
room.  Who,  for  example,  will  know  enough  to 
buy  my  copy  of  Frank  L.  Boyden's  "  Popular 
American  Composers,"  unless  some  one,  fifty  or 
sixty  years  from  now  when  I  die,  may  remember  to 
[4«4] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

have  read  my  account  of  it  in  "  The  Merry-go- 
round  "?  Who  will  bid  for  my  copy  of  "  Harry  " 
by  the  author  of  "  Mrs.  Jerningham's  Journal," 
also  in  my  possession?  These  long  narrative 
poems  of  the  seventies,  written  perhaps  in  imita- 
tion of  Owen  Meredith's  "  Lucile  "  are  priceless, 
and  yet  I  myself  picked  them  up  for  five  and  ten 
cents  respectively,  and  very  probably  at  an  auc- 
tion sale  they  would  go  for  less.  But  if  a  pros- 
pective buyer  turns  to  page  62  of  "  Harry  "  his 
eye  will  light  on  this  marked  passage : 

"  O,  women  have  no  temptations  at  all ; 
They  have  only  to  keep  their  white  lives  white ; 
But  men  are  so  tempted,  that  men  must  fall  — 
O  wonderful  Harry  who  stands  upright !  " 

and  if  he  further  flips  the  leaves  I  think  he  will 
purchase  the  book  at  whatever  price.  .  .  .  But 
suppose  some  Bible  student  should  bid  for  Francis 
Ja cox's  delightfully  misnamed  book,  "  Bible  Mu- 
sic," or  suppose  that  the  Hanslick  or  H.  E.  Kreh- 
biel  of  the  period,  intrigued  by  the  title  and 
Gavami's  piquant  illustrations,  should  take  "  Les 
Petits  Mysteres  de  I'Opera  "  away  from  its  right- 
ful owner,  who  should  be  a  Follies  girl.  Who  else 
could  appreciate  or  find  useful  Laure's  daily 
prayer : 

[45] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

"  Mon    coeur    de   jeune   fUley    6    Dieu,    vers    toi 

s^elance! 
Prends  en  pitie  mes  maiuc  et  gueris  ma  souf- 

france. 
Oh!  fais  qw^wn  prmce  nisse  on.  qu'un  milord 

anglais 
De  Londre  ou  Moscow  vienne  admirer  mes  at- 

traits. 
Le  fetide  marais  est  mortel  a  la  rose; 
Non,  pour  la  pauvrete  je  ne  suis  pas  eclose, 
Le  fiacre  me  depla^t;  V omnibus  me  fait  mat, 
Ce   quit   me   faut   c^est   un   briska  —  plus   un 

cheval." 

Whether  God  was  good  to  Laure  or  not,  Alberic 
Second,  the  author,  does  not  tell  us ;  he  hastens  on 
to  describe  the  debris  on  Lelia's  dressing  table : 

"  Un  citron  a  demi  grignote; 
Une  livre  de  cafe  roti; 
Un  cornet  de  tabac  a  priser; 
Deux  tablettes  de  chocolat; 
Cinq  ou  six  bouts  de  cigares; 
Une  poignee  de  haricots  sees; 
Une  croute  de  fromage  de  Gruyeres; 
Un  collier  de  verroteries ; 
DetLX  brioches  emiettees; 
[46] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

Un  morceau  de  savon  rose; 

Une  grappe  de  raisin  de  Corinthe; 

Un  petit  chat,  age  seidement  de  quelques  se- 

maines; 
Un  paquet  de  cartes  eras  senses; 
Et  wn  pot  de  pommade,  rempli,  jusqu'aux  bords, 

d*un  epais  et  onctueux  raisine." 

I  will  not  attempt  to  translate  this  very  charming 
free  verse  of  the  year  1844?.  It  seems  obvious, 
however,  that  Alberic  Second  was  one  of  the 
earliest,  if  not  the  earliest,  of  the  imagistes. 
There  is  my  copy  of  "  The  Baronet  and  the  But- 
terfly," autographed  with  Whistler's  butterfly  W ; 
there  is  the  first  edition  of  the  "  Works  ".of  Max 
Beerbohm ;  there  is  "  La  Cathedrale,"  bound  in 
amethyst,  and  ruby,  and  emerald  leather,  into 
which  these  precious  stones  have  been  set,  until 
the  cover  seems  to  glow  like  one  of  the  windows 
at  Chartres  which  Huysmans  describes ;  there  is 
Dr.  Burney's  "  The  Present  State  of  Music  in 
France  and  Italy,"  1773,  and  nearby  Aluigi's 
"  Storia  dell'  Abate  Pietro  Metastasio,"  published 
in  Assisi  in  1783 ;  and  there  is  Philip  Thicknesse's 
"  Journey  through  France  and  a  part  of  Spain," 
published  for  the  author  in  1776. 

[47] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 


II 


Philip  Thicknesse  was  an  irascible  and  cultivated 
English  gentleman-adventurer  with  a  kind  of 
genius  for  expressing  himself.  His  life,  his  pub- 
lished writings,  an  account  of  his  various  friend- 
ships and  quarrels,  of  his  three  wives  and  more 
children,  are  of  unusual  interest  to  analist  and  on- 
looker alike ;  even  a  superficial  study  of  them  brings 
before  us  a  complete  and  very  living  picture  of 
eighteenth  century  life  with  its  causes  and  con- 
sequences and  its  essential  decorations.  For 
Thicknesse's  life  was  both  active  and  decorative. 
It  was  exceedingly  rich,  for  the  life  of  so  full- 
blooded  a  man,  in  delicate  nuances ;  in  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture  our  hero  struggles  with  in- 
numerable figures  in  political,  social,  artistic, 
army,  and  even  religious  life;  while  in  the  back- 
ground house-furnishings,  clothes,  music,  and 
painting,  contribute  to  his  pleasure  and  ours. 
Not  the  least  of  these  pleasures  was  an  intense 
fondness  for  animals  of  all  sorts,  monkeys,  birds, 
dogs,  and  horses.  He  was  a  most  personal  writer; 
he  only  wrote  about  himself,  or  about  other  things 
and  people  as  they  affected  himself,  and  out  of  his 
twenty-four  books,  or  out  of  any  two  of  them, 
[48] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

for  that  matter,  you  can  with  no  great  difficulty, 
reconstruct  both  period  and  personality,  not  in 
the  manner  of  a  cold  steel  engraving,  but  with  all 
the  warmth  and  colour  of  a  painting.  Thick- 
nesse was  not  a  phrase-maker  nor  was  he  in  any 
conscious  way  an  artist,  but  he  succeeded  so  well 
in  transmitting  himself,  his  ideas,  his  friends  and 
enemies,  and  the  things  he  saw,  to  paper,  that  his 
pages  still  glow  with  informing  life.  You  must 
not,  however,  expect  to  be  transported  into  the 
rococo  charm  of  Vernon  Lee's  Italian  eighteenth 
century.  To  be  sure  you  will  meet  with  powdered 
hair,  lace  coats,  and  red  coats  trimmed  with  gold 
braid,  snuff,  crimson-velvet  breeches,  white  wigs 
and  plumes,  blue  silk  capuchins,  four-wheeled 
chaises,  and  coffee  houses.  And  if  you  miss  the 
name  of  Metastasio  you  will  be  delighted  to  run 
across  references  to  The  Beggar^s  Opera. 

Philip  Thicknesse  was  born  in  1719  and  he  died 
in  1792;  he  therefore  may  be  said  to  represent  the 
complete  span  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  rector  of  Northamptonshire,  we  are 
told  in  Sidney  Lee's  "  Dictionary  of  National  Biog- 
raphy," and  he  was  sent  first  to  Aynhoe  and  later 
to  Westminster  School.  His  father  then  placed 
him  with  an  apothecary  bearing  the  very  eight- 
eenth century  name  of  Marmaduke  Tisdall,  but 
[49] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

Philip's  taste  for  the  chemist's  calling  appears  to 
have  been  meagre  and  in  1735  when  he  was  16 
years  old  he  left  for  Georgia  with  General  Ogle- 
thorpe. Thus  his  travels  and  adventures  began, 
travels  and  adventures  which  were  to  continue 
throughout  his  long  life.  The  account  of  his  two 
years  in  America  to  be  found  in  "  Memoirs  and 
Anecdotes  of  Philip  Thicknesse"  (1788)  is  ex- 
ceedingly diverting.  His  distaste  for  the  white 
settlers  in  the  colony  and  his  sympathy  for  the 
Indians  led  him  to  seek  the  settlement  of  a  native 
king  on  the  Susquehanna  River.  "  In  this  situa- 
tion," he  tells  us,  "  I  wanted  nothing  but  a  female 
friend  (the  quaint  eighteenth  century  use  of 
italics),  and  I  had  almost  determined  to  take  to 
wife  one  of  Queen  Cenauke's  maids  of  honor.  I 
seriously  paid  my  addresses  to  her  and  she  in  re- 
turn honor'd  me  with  the  appellation  of  Auche 
(friend).  She  had  receiv'd  a  pair  of  Indian  boots, 
some  paint,  looking  glass,  a  comb,  a  pair  of  scis- 
sars,  as  tokens  of  my  love,  and  one  BufFaloe's  skin 
had  certainly  held  us  had  not  an  extraordinary 
incident  arose  which  determined  me  to  return  im- 
mediately to  England."  The  incident  was  a  dream 
in  which  his  mother  appeared  to  him,  apparently 
as  a  departed  spirit.  This  vision  was  so  intense 
that  he  believed  his  mother  had  died.  He  returned 
[50] 


ANoteon  PhilipThicknesse 

to  England  at  once  (in  1737)  only  to  find  the 
estimable  woman  alive  and  in  perfect  health.  This 
episode  should  have  weakened  his  faith  in  his 
fatidical  powers  but  there  is  no  evidence  that  it 
did. 

In  England  he  was  employed  by  trustees  of  the 
company  until  he  lost  Oglethorpe's  favour  by 
speaking  too  plainly  about  the  way  affairs  were 
managed  in  Georgia.  His  next  adventure  was  in 
Jamaica  where  he  obtained  a  lieutenancy  in  an  in- 
dependent company  and  where  for  a  time  he  was 
engaged  in  desultory  warfare  with  wild  Negroes. 
The  greater  part  of  the  first  volume  of  his  "  Me- 
moirs "  is  occupied  with  this  period,  together  with 
much  abuse  and  controversial  matter  concerning 
a  certain  James  MacKittrick.  Whether  or  not  an 
English  libel  law  existed  in  the  eighteenth  century 
I  do  not  know,  but  MacKittrick  and  Thicknesse 
seem  to  have  proceeded  in  the  mud-throwing  game 
with  no  reserve  whatever.  Here  is  a  sample  pas- 
sage from  the  "  Memoirs  " :  "I  am  now  arrived 
at  that  important  period  of  my  life  (yet  a  com- 
pleat  half  century  ago)  that  James  MacKittrick, 
alias  Adair,  hath  charged  me  with  having  the  sole 
command  of  a  party  of  soldiers  when  in  the  woods 
of  Jamaica,  and  falling  into  an  ambush  of  the  wild 
Negroes ;  securing  my  own  person  by  an  early  re- 
[51] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

treat,  and  leaving  the  battle  to  be  fought  by  my 
victorious  Sergeant,  who  brought  many  of  them 
in  prisoners,  at  the  instant  that  I  was  boasting  of 
my  personal  exploits.  I  will  not  call  this  double 
named  doctor  a  heast,  a  reptile,  an  assassin^  a  mur- 
der-mongery  but  the  reader  will,  I  am  sure  excuse 
me,  in  saying  he  is  a  base  libeller,  a  liar,  and  a 
wicked  defamer,  and  has  no  pretensions  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  gentleman,  if  he  has  dared  to  write, 
print,  and  publish  such  falsehoods." 

Thicknesse's  account  of  the  fight  with  wild  Ne- 
groes which  follows  this  diatribe  is  picturesque  in 
the  extreme,  none  the  less  so  because  the  author  to 
a  great  extent  sympathized  with  the  cause  of  the 
blacks.  Whether  MacKittrick  or  Thicknesse 
gives  a  true  account  of  what  happened  in  Jamaica 
this  much  is  certain,  that  Thicknesse  disagreed 
with  his  brother  officers  and  returned  to  England. 
On  this  return  journey  the  ship  caught  fire,  but 
the  fire  was  extinguished  and  the  voyage  pro- 
ceeded. In  1744—5  he  was  sent  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean fleet  under  Admiral  Medley,  and  in  Feb- 
ruary, 1753,  he  procured  by  purchase  the 
Lieutenant-Governorship  of  Land  Guard  Fort, 
SufFolk,  which  he  held  until  1766.  His  life  at  the 
fort  was  marked  by  a  series  of  dissensions.  His 
particular  enemy  with  whom  he  must  have  been  in 
[52] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

almost  continuous  disagreement  was  Francis  Ver- 
non (afterwards  Lord  Orwell  and  Earl  of  Ship- 
brooke),  then  Colonel  of  the  Suffolk  militia.  As  a 
last  ironic  touch  he  sent  the  Colonel  the  ludicrous 
present  of  a  wooden  gun,  and  became  involved 
thereby  in  an  action  for  libel  with  the  result  that  he 
was  confined  three  months  in  the  king's  bench 
prison  and  fined  £300.  He  later  exhibited  the 
wooden  gun,  labelled  with  some  depreciatory  verses, 
in  front  of  his  house  at  Bath.  In  a  letter  to  the 
"  Lady  of  Admiral  G  "  Thicknesse,  with  admirable 
humour,  tells  the  story  of  the  wooden  gun  at 
some  length  in  the  second  volume  of  his  "  Me- 
moirs." While  he  continually  quarreled  with 
those  whose  station  in  military  or  civil  life  was 
above  his  own,  his  relations  with  those  under 
him  seem  to  have  been  distinguished  by  the  finest 
feelings,  the  most  scrupulous  propriety.  He  was 
very  humane  as  the  following  passage  taken  from 
an  account  of  a  deserting  sergeant  condemned  to 
death,  will  testify :  "  It  is  an  easy  matter  to  sen- 
tence a  man  to  death,  or  to  inflict  a  thousand 
lashes  on  his  back,  but  it  is  terrible  to  endure; 
during  the  fourteen  years  I  commanded  Land 
Guard  Fort  I  made  the  old  invalids  do  their  duty 
like  soldiers,  and  I  have  a  certificate  under  all  their 
hands  that  I  did  so,  and  that  no  man  during  that 
[53] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

period  had  his  shirt  stript  from  his  body,  or  a 
lash  upon  his  back."  And  note  this  passage  con- 
cerning slavery :  "  I  have  seen  the  slavery  of  the 
West  Indies,  and  the  slavery  of  the  Galleys,  but 
the  veriest  slaves  I  have  ever  seen,  are  the  day 
labourers  of  England  and  Ireland,  and  the  all 
work  maid  servants  of  London."  It  was  with  the 
American  Indian,  the  African  Negro,  that  Thick- 
nesse sympathized  in  his  visits  to  this  continent 
and  the  adjacent  islands,  and  later,  during  the 
Revolution,  he  took  the  part  of  the  colony  against 
England.  "  Is  it  probable,"  asks  Thicknesse  in 
1776,  "  that  all  the  fleets  and  armies  of  Great 
Britain  can  conquer  America  ?  —  England  may  as 
well  attempt  moving  that  Continent  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic." 

In  1754?  walking  near  Land  Guard  Fort  he  met 
Thomas  Gainsborough  and  for  twenty  years  there- 
after constituted  himself  patron  of  this  artist,  of 
whose  genius  he  considered  himself  the  discoverer. 
He  wrote,  I  think,  the  first  life  of  Gainsborough,  a 
book  which  has  been  of  considerable  use  to  later 
biographers  of  the  painter.  He  even  induced 
Gainsborough  to  move  from  Ipswich  to  Bath  but 
in  1774  the  inevitable  squabble  occurred  and  the 
friendship  was  ended. 

This  quarrel,  being  fully  described  in  "  The  Life 
[54] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

of  Thomas  Gainsborough,"  is  not  mentioned  in  the 
two  volumes  of  the  "  Memoirs  "  which  I  have  seen 
(a  third  was  added  later)  but  many  others  are. 
For  instance  he  tells  how  and  why  he  beat  up  Mr. 
Hutton  Briggs  with  a  cane  at  Portsmouth.  Two 
young  misses  sent  by  a  wifeless  father  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Thicknesse  at  Calais  had  the  misfortune  to 
bring  a  carnivorous  dog  with  them  which  straight- 
way devoured  Mrs.  Thicknesse's  favourite  paro- 
quet. As  a  result  the  master  of  the  house 
packed  the  young  ladies  off  to  a  convent,  where 
their  father,  having  no  home  for  them,  permitted 
them  to  remain,  under  lock  and  key,  for  three 
years !  In  a  chapter  entitled  "  Anecdote  of  a 
Lord,  a  Monk,  and  a  Fool,"  Thicknesse  relates 
how  the  Earl  of  Coventry  desired  him  to  secure 
from  one  of  the  holy  men  at  Montserrat  some 
botanical  specimens  for  which  his  lordship  even- 
tually refused  to  pay.  .  .  .  Even  a  quarrel  with  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  over  a  weathercock  and 
a  guinea  is  set  down  in  bitter  detail,  although  with 
the  properly  humble  recriminatory  spirit. 

But  perhaps  his  greatest  quarrel  was  with  Eng- 
land. In  1766  he  settled  at  Welwyn,  Hertford- 
shire, removing  thence  to  Monmouthshire,  and  in 
1T68  to  Bath  where  he  purchased  a  house  in  the 
Crescent.  His  long  cherished  hope  of  succeed- 
[55] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

ing  to  £12,000  from  the  family  of  his  first  wife  was 
destroyed  by  an  unsuccessful  appeal  to  the  House 
of  Lords  in  1775.  He  regarded  himself  as  driven 
out  of  his  country  and  he  resolved  to  abandon  it 
and  settle  in  Spain.  Accompanied  by  his  wife, 
two  daughters,  a  man-servant  and  his  monkey,  he 
set  out  from  Calais  in  his  own  cabriolet.  "  He  is," 
writes  Havelock  Ellis,  "  the  accomplished  repre- 
sentative of  a  certain  type  of  Englishman,  a  type, 
indeed,  once  regarded  by  the  world  at  large  outside 
England  as  that  of  the  essential  Englishman. 
The  men  of  this  type  have,  in  fact,  a  passion  for 
exploring  the  physical  world,  they  are  often  found 
outside  England,  and  for  some  strange  reason  they 
seem  more  themselves,  more  quintessentially  Eng- 
lish, when  they  are  out  of  England.  They  are 
gentlemen  and  they  are  patriots.  But  they  have  a 
natural  aptitude  for  disgust  and  indignation,  and 
they  cannot  fail  to  find  ample  exercise  for  that 
aptitude  in  the  affairs  of  their  own  country.  So 
in  a  moment  of  passion  they  shake  the  dust  of 
England  off  their  feet  to  rush  abroad,  where,  also, 
however, —  though  they  are  far  too  intelligent  to 
be  inappreciative  of  what  they  find, —  they  meet 
even  more  to  arouse  their  disgust  and  indignation, 
and  in  the  end  they  usually  come  back  to  Eng- 
land. .  .  .  For  the  most  part  the  manners  and 
[56] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

customs  of  this  type  of  man  are  only  known  to  us 
by  hearsay  which  we  may  refuse  to  credit.  But 
about  Thicknesse  there  is  no  manner  of  doubt;  he 
has  written  himself  down;  he  is  the  veridic  and 
positive  embodiment  of  the  type.  .  .  .  The  type 
is  scarcely  that  of  the  essential  Englishman,  yet  it 
is  one  type,  and  a  notably  interesting  type,  really 
racy  of  the  soil.  Borrow  —  less  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man than  Thicknesse,  but  more  of  a  genius  —  be- 
longed to  the  type.  Landor,  a  man  cast  in  a 
much  grander  mould,  was  yet  of  the  same  sort, 
and  the  story  which  tells  how  he  threw  his  Italian 
cook  out  of  the  window,  and  then  exclaimed  with 
sudden  compunction,  "  Good  God !  I  forgot  the 
violets,"  is  altogether  in  the  spirit  of  Thicknesse. 
Trelawney  was  a  man  of  this  kind,  and  so  was 
Sir  Richard  Burton.  .  .  .  They  are  an  uncom- 
fortable race  of  men,  but  in  many  ways  admirable ; 
we  should  be  proud  rather  than  ashamed  of  them. 
Their  unreasonableness,  their  inconsiderateness, 
their  irritability,  their  singular  gleams  of  insight, 
their  exuberant  energy  of  righteous  vituperation, 
the  curious  irregularities  of  their  minds, —  however 
personally  alien  one  may  happen  to  find  such  qual- 
ities,—  can  never  fail  to  interest  and  delight." 

Thicknesse  passed  through  the  South  of  France 
into  Catalonia,  where  he  sojourned  for  a  time  at 
[57] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

Barcelona,  but  aside  from  his  visit  to  the  Monas- 
tery of  Montserrat,  he  found  Spain  even  more  un- 
pleasant than  England  and  was  back  in  Bath 
within  the  year.  A  delightfully  discursive  book, 
full  of  charming  description  and  anecdote,  "  A 
Year's  Journey  through  France  and  a  part  of 
Spain,"  which  is  in  my  possession,  was  the  result. 
The  two  volumes  are  illustrated  with  drawings  from 
Thicknesse's  own  pen  and  he  might  therefore  be 
added  to  my  list  of  painter-authors.  The  account 
of  Montserrat,  which  is  long  and  detailed,  and 
which  was  made  before  the  various  despoliations 
suffered  by  the  monastery,  makes  the  book  of 
especial  interest  to  those,  and  there  are  many  such, 
for  whom  the  very  name  of  Montserrat  has  a 
unique  thrill.  There  are  vivid  accounts  of  the 
jewels  of  the  madonna:  "  There  are  four  crowns 
for  the  head  of  the  Virgin;  two  of  plated  gold, 
richly  set  with  diamonds ;  two  of  solid  gold,  one  of 
which  has  two  thousand  five  hundred  large 
emeralds  in  it,  and  is  valued  at  fifty  thousand 
ducats;  the  fourth  and  richest,  is  set  with  one 
thousand  one  hundred  and  twenty-four  diamonds, 
five  of  which  number  are  valued  at  five  hundred 
ducats  each;  eighteen  hundred  large  pearls,  of 
equal  size ;  thirty-eight  large  emeralds,  twenty-one 
zaphirs,  and  five  rubies;  and  at  the  top  of  this 
[58] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

crown  is  a  gold  ship,  adorned  with  diamonds  of 
eighteen  thousand  dollars'  value.  The  gold  alone 
of  these  crowns  weighs  twenty-five  pounds,  and 
with  the  jewels  and  setting,  upwards  of  fifty. 
These  crowns  have  been  made  at  Montserrat,  from 
the  gold  and  separate  jewels  presented  to  the 
convent  from  time  to  time  by  the  crowned  heads 
and  princes  of  Europe."  The  legend  of  Juan 
Guerin  and  the  miraculous  founding  of  the  mon- 
astery is  told  in  a  fascinating  folk-spirit  style. 
Alec  Trusselby  could  do  no  better.  Thicknesse 
climbed  to  each  of  the  hermitages  and  he  describes 
them  all,  each  hut  on  its  tiny  pinnacle  of  moun- 
tain overhanging  a  precipice,  overgrown  with  ex- 
travagant floral  vegetation.  The  holy  brothers 
were  forbidden  to  kill  meat  or  to  entertain  pets  in 
their  huts  but  one  of  them  evaded  the  law  by  meet- 
ing his  tame  birds  outside.  They  nestled  in  his 
beard  and  his  garment,  and  Thicknesse,  who  had 
just  bought  a  new  fowling  piece  in  Barcelona,  was 
so  moved  by  the  pretty  spectacle  that  he  registered 
a  vow  never  to  use  it,  a  vow  which  he  breaks  a  few 
hundred  pages  later.  .  .  .  Most  wonderful  of  all 
is  the  description  of  the  blind  mule  which,  laden 
with  baskets,  and  unaccompanied,  made  the  peril- 
ous tour  of  the  hermitages  once  a  day  carrying  the 
monks  their  food. 

[59] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

The  casual  reader,  however,  the  lover  of  litera- 
ture and  life,  will  be  more  amused  and  delighted  by 
the  ordinary  adventures  of  the  day  and  night,  the 
description  of  inns,  of  people  met  by  the  way,  of 
the  astonishing  monkey  who  refuses  all  social  in- 
tercourse with  elderly  male  monkeys  encountered 
on  the  road,  fearing  they  may  be  his  father,  thus 
anticipating  by  a  century  Samuel  Butler's  Ernest 
in  "  The  Way  of  All  Flesh."  He  is  alive  to  all  im- 
pressions and  he  puts  everything  down  from  an 
exact  description  with  drawings  of  the  Maison 
Carree  at  Nimes  to  an  account  of  his  overturning 
a  dish  of  spinach  on  a  maidservant's  head.  Thick- 
nesse had  observed,  with  amazement  and  disgust, 
the  preparation  of  this  spinach,  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  inn.  He  philosophizes  about  the 
comparative  amount  of  drinking  in  the  countries 
he  visits;  he  compares  the  French  with  the  Eng- 
lish ;  he  gossips  about  Madame  de  Pompadour ;  he 
gives  advice  to  young  Englishmen  about  to  travel, 
warning  them  about  women  and  gambling;  he 
meets  a  pretty  girl  sculling  across  a  French  river, 
asks  her  what  she  does  in  the  winter  when  the  river 
is  frozen,  and  elicits  the  reply  that  she  has  two 
talents,  a  fact  he  faithfully  records;  there  are 
pages  about  the  dangers  that  beset  the  path  of  the 
traveller,  bandits,  card-sharpers,  gipsies,  wicked 
[60] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

aguaziles;  there  are  more  pages  about  priests, 
heretics,  beggars,  and  grandees ;  he  visits 
his  daughter,  immured  as  a  nun  in  a  con- 
vent at  Ardres  because  small-pox  has  ravaged 
her  face,  and  finding  that  the  mother-superior, 
through  ignorance  or  cupidity  or  both,  has 
let  rooms  on  the  parlor  floors  to  two  English 
women  whose  pretensions  to  respectability  he  sus- 
pects, in  some  heat  he  adjures  the  holy  mother  to 
hustle  them  out  at  once,  lest  their  worldly  influ- 
ence shall  corrupt  his  daughter's  peace  of  mind ;  ^ 
he  sees  and  describes,  in  horrible  detail,  the  more 
horrible  because  he  himself  is  horrified  and  tries 
to  escape  but  cannot  push  through  the  crowd,  an 

1  That  Thicknesse  had  ground  for  his  suspicions  we  may 
believe  after  reading  what  Mrs.  Emily  James  Putnam  has 
to  say  about  eighteenth  century  French  convents  in  "The 
Lady":  "Many  convents  received  ladies  from  the  world  as 
transient  guests  and  these  inmates  brought  the  world  with 
them.  Madame  de  Genlis,  shortly  after  her  marriage,,  so- 
journed in  a  convent  while  her  husband  was  absent  on 
military  duty.  She  enjoyed  herself  thoroughly.  The  ab- 
bess used  to  invite  men  to  dinner  in  her  apartment;  at  the 
carnival,  Madame  de  Genlis  was  allowed  to  give  in  the  con- 
vent-parlour two  balls  a  week  attended  by  nuns  and  school 
girls;  when  these  amusements  were  insufficient  she  would 
sometimes  rise  at  midnight,  run  about  the  corridor  in  the 
costume  of  the  devil  and  wake  the  nuns  in  their  cells. 
When  she  found  a  sister  very  sound  asleep  she  would  paint 
her  cheeks  and  affix  a  mouche  or  two.  The  little  girls  were 
often  allowed  free  access  to  the  lady-boarders  and  listened 
with  round  eyes  to  their  tales  of  life  in  the  world." 

[61] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

execution:  a  man  is  broken  on  the  wheel  and  the 
executioner's  aged  mother  assists  him  in  his  horrid 
job,  and  not  without  relish;  he  avoids  the  corona- 
tion of  Louis  XVI  at  Rheims  and  tells  us  why ;  he 
is  mistreated  by  Messrs.  Curtoys  and  Wombwell, 
who  refuse  to  recognize  his  English  bank  notes  in 
Barcelona/  and  he  sets  down  the  whole  transac- 
tion, together  with  his  full  opinions  of  the  gentle- 
men ;  he  paints  a  picture  of  the  fandango  and  even 
prints  the  music  to  which  it  may  be  danced ;  in  fact 
he  gossips  and  chats  and  scolds  and  praises  in  the 
loosest  and  freest  manner,  probably  without  con- 
sidering himself  either  an  artist  or  a  writer,  and 
yet  skill  of  the  most  acute  kind  has  seldom  pro- 
duced so  entertaining  a  book  of  travel.     In  fact 
I  ramble  through  the  two  musty  old  volumes,  full 
of  obsolete  and  mistaken  spellings  and  S's  like  F's, 
with  as  much  pleasure  as  I  would  take  rambling 
through    the    same   scenes    with   as    gossipy    and 
amusing  a  companion. 

In  1784  Thicknesse  erected  in  his  private 
grounds  at  the  Hermitage  the  first  monument 
raised  in  England  to  Chatterton's  memory.  Five 
years  later  this  restless  spirit  purchased  a  barn 

1  W.  D.  Howells  had  a  similar  experience  with  a  letter  of 
credit  at  Valladolid  in  1911,  which  he  recounts  in  his  "  Fa- 
miliar Spanish  Travels." 

[62] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

at  Sandgate  near  Hytte  and  converted  it  into  a 
dwelling  place,  from  which  he  could  gaze  on  the 
shores  of  France  into  which  country  he  made  an- 
other excursion  in  1791,  visiting  Paris  during  the 
early  da^^s  of  the  revolution.  In  the  following 
year  he  was  back  in  Bath,  but  he  left  again  for  the 
continent  and  died  in  a  coach  near  Boulogne  on 
his  way  to  Paris  with  his  wife  on  November  19, 
1792.  He  was  buried  in  the  Protestant  Cem- 
etery at  Boulogne. 

He  was  married  three  times.  In  1742  he  mar- 
ried Maria,  only  daughter  of  John  Lanove  of 
Southampton,  a  French  refugee.  She  died  early 
in  1749  and  on  November  10  of  the  same  year  he 
married  Elizabeth  Touchet,  eldest  daughter  of 
the  Earl  of  Castlehaven.  Her  sister.  Lady  Mary 
Touchet,  met  the  Pretender  at  a  ball  in  Paris  in 
1745.  Attracted  by  her  personal  charm  he  took 
her  as  a  partner,  communicated  to  her  the  details 
of  his  expedition,  even  ripped  the  star  from  his 
breast  and  gave  it  to  her.  .  .  .  She  died  at  the  age 
of  twenty.  Elizabeth  Touchet  Thicknesse  died 
March  28,  1862,  leaving  three  sons  and  three 
daughters.  The  eldest  son  succeeded  to  the 
Barony  of  Audley.  His  father  hated  him  and  in 
his  will  desired  his  right  hand  to  be  cut  off  and  sent 
to  Lord  Audley,  "  to  remind  him  of  his  duty  to 
[63] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

God,  after  having  so  long  abandoned  the  duty  he 
owed  to  his  father."  There  is  a  further  reminis- 
cence of  this  family  feud  in  the  complete  title  of 
his  last  book  which  reads,  "  Memoirs  and  Anec- 
dotes of  Philip  Thicknesse,  late  Lieutenant  Gov- 
ernor of  Land  Guard  Fort,  and  unfortunately 
Father  to  George  Touchet,  Baron  Audley."  The 
quarrel  with  George,  which  seems  to  have  been 
about  money,  eventually  extended  to  another  son, 
Philip.  .  .  .  Thicknesse's  third  wife,  Anne  (1737- 
1824),  daughter  of  Thomas  Ford,  he  married 
September  27,  1762.  She  was  a  musician,  playing 
the  guitar,  the  viola  da  gamba,  and  the  musical 
glasses,  and  singing  Handel  and  other  old  Italian 
airs.  She  even  gave  concerts  in  London.  The 
customs  inspector  at  Cette  on  the  way  to  Spain 
found  "  a  bass  viol,  two  guittars,  a  fiddle,  and  some 
other  musical  instruments  "  in  Thicknesse's  bag- 
gage. .  .  .  The  third  Mrs.  Thicknesse  also  used 
the  pen;  she  wrote  sketches  of  the  lives  and  writ- 
ings of  the  ladies  of  France. 

Twenty-four  books  of  Thicknesse  are  listed 
although  none  of  them  is  easy  to  procure  nowa- 
days. Perhaps  the  most  important  are  "  Obser- 
vations on  the  customs  and  manners  of  the  French 
nation  (1766;  2nd  edition,  1779;  3rd  edition, 
1789)  ;  "  Useful  hints  to  those  who  make  the  tour 
[64] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

of  France"  (1768);  "Sketches  and  Characters 
of  the  most  Eminent  and  Singular  Persons  now 
living"  (1770);  "A  Treatise  on  the  art  of  de- 
c^'phering  and  writing  in  cypher,  with  an  har- 
monic alphabet  (1772);  "A  Year's  Journey 
through  France  and  a  part  of  Spain  "  (1777 ;  2nd 
edition,  1778;  3rd  edition,  1789);  "Queries  to 
Lord  Audley  "  (1782)  ;  "  A  Sketch  of  the  Life  and 
Paintings  of  Thomas  Gainsborough"  (1788); 
and  the  "  Memoirs  "  (178&-91). 

At  one  time  in  his  life  he  became  extremely  inter- 
ested in  the  subject  of  gall-stones.  He  wrote  a 
book  on  their  exorcism  called  "  The  Valetudina- 
rian's Bath  Guide"  and  to  cure  Lord  Thurlow, 
with  whom,  of  course,  he  afterwards  quarrelled,  he 
prescribed  a  trotting  horse,  "  to  render  the  exter- 
nals of  the  gall  stones  perfectly  smooth."  He 
recurs  to  the  subject,  which  must  have  obsessed 
him  for  a  score  of  years,  in  his  "  Memoirs  "  and 
also  discusses  therein  other  bladder  complaints 
with  some  freedom.  There  is  a  further  chapter 
in  this  extremely  diverting  book  about  Mrs.  Mary 
Tuft  of  Godalming,  who  asserted  that  she  gave 
birth  to  rabbits,  delivering  fifteen  in  a  batch,  and 
a  few  ironic  paragraphs  are  shot  at  St.  Andre,  the 
anatomist,  who  wrote  a  pamphlet  to  prove  that 
rabbits  were  preternatural  human  foetuses  in  the 
[65] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

form  of  quadrupeds.  At  the  close  of  the  first 
volume  in  place  of  the  listed  errors,  usual  in  books 
printed  at  this  period,  one  finds  the  following 
statement :  "  Errata  for  both  volumes.  The 
author  is  in  his  Seventieth  Year  and  never  pre- 
tended to  be  an  accurate  writer,"  and  in  the  exten- 
sive list  of  patrons  it  seems  very  pleasant  to  meet 
David  Garrick  and  Thomas  Gainsborough. 


Ill 


I  should  find  little  difficulty  in  hitting  upon  a 
future  owner  for  my  Philip  Thicknesse.  Indeed  I 
know  few  men  or  women  who  would  not  cherish 
this  book  and  doubtless  the  ideal  way  to  dispose 
of  one's  books  is  give  each  by  deed  of  testament 
to  the  friend  best  fitted  to  receive  it.  But  there 
are  many  objections  to  this  procedure.  Tastes 
change.  Perhaps  when  I  am  through  with  my 
books  Peter  Whiffle,  who  now  ardently  desires  my 
set  of  Lafcadio  Heam,  may  be  browsing  in  other 
fields ;  perhaps  he  may  have  acquired  a  set  of  his 
own.  Noel  Haddon  assured  me  but  the  other  day 
that  she  would  be  willing  to  see  me  die  if  I  would 
leave  in  her  hands  my  Petronius,  bound  in  old  rose 
quaintly  tooled  with  golden  fruit.  But  in  a  few 
weeks  Noel  will  have  satisfied  her  curiosity  in  re- 
[66] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

gard  to  Petronius  and  will  turn  her  roving  envious 
attention  to  my  Catulle  Mendes,  bound  in  gay 
Florentine  wall-papers. 

Nor  could  I  leave  all  my  books  to  one  person, 
unless  I  added  to  the  bequest  a  suitable  sum  for 
their  upkeep.  For  who  is  there  who  wants  all  of 
another  man's  books.'*  Who  is  there,  indeed,  who 
wants  half  of  another  man's  books.'* 

And,  still  studying  the  problem,  I  wandered  be- 
fore my  shelves,  flipping  open  the  covers  of  this 
and  that  beloved  volume,  bestowing  admiration 
and  approval  while  yet  I  might,  sometimes  on  the 
contents,  sometimes  on  the  printing,  sometimes  on 
the  binding,  sometimes,  even,  on  the  illustrations, 
and  I  cast  about  in  my  mind  for  a  decent  method 
of  disposal  after  I  have  joined  the  oblivious 
throng.  For  I  could  not  tolerate  the  idea  of  let- 
ting my  books  run  the  risk  of  the  auction  block. 
I  have  loved  them  in  this  life  and  I  decided  that 
they  must  rest  safely  after  my  death.  Days  and 
days  I  have  spent  in  dusty  and  splendid  bookshops 
(although,  alas,  I  never  knew  Arthur  Symons's 
Holywell  Street),  perusing  the  shelves,  always  to 
find  some  new  treasure,  some  new  delight,  for  it  is 
my  fortune  that  I  can  never  enter  a  bookshop  and 
retreat  empty-handed.  And  even  the  most  tat- 
tered volume  assumes  its  dignity  and  importance 
[67] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

once  it  is  dusted  and  placed  in  its  order  on  my 
stately  shelves. 

And,  pondering  thus,  a  way  came  to  me.  When 
I  am  dead  my  books  shall  be  cleaned  and  laid  out 
for  burial  in  straight  rows  in  bronze  chests  made 
to  harbour  them.  Not  one  single  book  is  to  be 
kept  out.  The  chests  are  then  to  be  hermetically 
sealed  and  buried  in  a  secret  place,  which  only  one 
shall  know,  and  it  may  be  that  I  shall  sink  the 
chests  like  another  Atlantis,  to  the  bo^om  of 
the  sea,  or  they  may  be  hidden  in  caves,  or  buried 
five  fathoms  deep  in  the  soil,  or  they  may  be  con- 
veyed across  rivers  and  oceans  and  continents  to 
the  mouth  of  an  extinct  volcano  and  there  de- 
posited in  the  crater,  but  wherever  they  are  to  be 
placed,  only  one  shall  know. 

And  in  several  centuries  (perhaps,  indeed,  my 
chests  will  escape  despoliation  for  as  long  a  time 
as  the  Egyptian  tombs,  which  remained  intact  for 
thirty  centuries  or  more)  some  one,  digging,  if 
they  be  buried  in  land,  will  discover  my  chests.  Or 
if  they  be  buried  at  sea  they  may  be  found  by 
some  diver,  or  perhaps  the  course  of  the  waters 
will  be  altered  again  and  what  is  wet  will  then  be 
dry.  .  .  .  At  any  rate  my  chests  will  be  discov- 
ered and  pried  open  and  the  disappointment  of  the 
man  who  finds  them  will  at  first  be  great,  for  will 
[68] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

he  not  expect  a  treasure?  His  first  thought  will 
be,  Surely  these  heavy  chests  so  carefully  sealed 
contain  shivering  handfuls  of  rubies  and  jade,  or 
crystal  goblets,  or  perhaps  they  conceal  clean 
yellow  gold,  or  tarnished  silver.  Metal,  surely, 
perhaps  weapons;  daggers  with  rubies  and  jade 
set  in  the  handles,  or  Toledo  pistols,  or  perhaps 
the  garments  of  the  dead.  .  .  .  And  it  would  be 
amusing  to  put  a  suit  of  man's  clothes,  an  ugly 
sack  suit  of  the  period  on  top  of  the  books  to 
amuse  and  perplex  the  fortieth  century  opener !  .  .  . 
The  books,  of  course,  will  at  first  astound  him; 
then  he  will  feel  bitter  disappointment,  and  still 
later  he  will  brighten  with  joy.  For  in  the  end 
the  veriest  dolt  of  a  peasant,  the  veriest  zany  of  a 
manufacturer's  son,  will  realize  the  worth  of  his 
discovery.  The  private  and  personal  library  of  a 
gentleman  of  the  twentieth  century!  he  will  ex- 
claim, and  well  he  may  be  delighted,  for  the  period, 
nay  several  periods,  may  be  reconstructed  from 
these  poor  bones.  And  if  he  be  peasant  he  will 
sell  his  find  to  some  collector  and  if  he  be  collec- 
tor he  will  carry  his  find  to  some  city  and  dispose 
of  it  on  noble  shelves  builded  for  the  purpose  and 
the  books  will  be  the  delight  of  scholar  and  dilet- 
tante for  a  generation,  as  they  strive  to  puzzle  out 
the  strange  words  of  the  twentieth  century.  For 
[69] 


A  Note  on  Philip  Thicknesse 

when  my  chests  are  discovered  most  of  the  books 
therein  will  have  disappeared  from  other  collec- 
tions, even  from  the  libraries,  and  the  titles  and 
names  of  the  authors  on  the  backs  will  find  a  new 
lease  of  fame,  a  new  and  a  wiser  glory.  For  who 
of  us  can  predict  which  of  these  books  will  best 
please  the  taste  of  the  fortieth  century? 
November  30,  1918, 


[70] 


The  Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

"  Sobre  la  base  del  canto  nacional  debia  construir 
cada  pueblo  su  sistema." 

P.  Antonio  Eximeno. 


The  Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

A  romance  in  the  picaresque  manner 


OF  late  years  considerable  energy  has  been 
expended  by  those  interested  in  such 
matters  in  the  research  of  the  folk-song 
in  America.  Stimulated,  no  doubt,  by  the  exam- 
ple of  England,  a  country  which,  not  so  very  long 
ago  believed  herself  folk-songless,  but  which  dis- 
covered to  her  own  astonishment  that  she  had  as 
many  folk-songs  as  Sweden  or  Italy,  collectors 
have  ranged  over  these  United  States  in  a  des- 
perate effort  to  capture  whatever  specimens  of 
the  art  of  the  people  may  still  have  lingered  in 
these  unwelcoming  environments.  Cecil  J.  Sharp, 
indeed,  in  a  trip  through  the  Southern  Appa- 
lachian mountains,  through  the  states  of  West 
Virginia,  Kentucky,  North  and  South  Carolina, 
Alabama,  Tennessee,  and  Georgia,  found  this  re- 
gion more  profitable  for  the  collection  of  old 
English  and  Scottish  folk-songs  than  their  orig- 
inal habitat.  For  in  England  only  the  old  sing 
the  songs  nowadays,  and  they  only  after  much 
persuasion,  but  in  the  southern  mountains,  far 
from  the  railroads,  the  young  sing  as  well  as  the 
[73] 


The   Folk-Songs   of   Iowa 

old ;  many  of  them  have  large  repertories.  Even 
before  Cecil  Sharp  with  his  unusual  scholarship 
undertook  the  chase  Josephine  McGill  had  col- 
lected folk-songs  in  the  Kentucky  mountains  and 
Loraine  Wyman  and  Howard  Brockway  had  found 
their  lonesome  tunes  in  the  same  locality.  Fran- 
ces Densmore  collected  her  Indian  folk-songs,  pub- 
lished by  the  Bureau  of  Ethnology,  in  Minnesota. 
Charles  F.  Lummis  gathered  a  group  of  cowboy 
songs.  William  Francis  Allen,  Charles  Packard 
Ware,  Lucy  McKim  Garrison,  Emily  Hallowell, 
and  more  recently,  Natalie  Curtis  Burlin  and 
Henry  Burleigh,  have  sought  to  put  down  as  many 
of  the  old  Negro  folk-songs  as  possible.  Mrs. 
Burlin,  indeed,  made  the  interesting  discovery  that 
the  Negro  folk-songs  are  polyphonic,  sung  a  cap- 
pela,  and  not  in  unison.  One  critics,  H.  E. 
Krehbiel,  inoculated  originally,  no  doubt,  by  his 
friend  Lafcadio  Heam,  has  been  interested  in  all 
manifestations  of  folk-song.  His  curiosity  re- 
garding the  different  versions  of  a  certain  ballad 
called  The  Jew^s  Daughter  has  almost  amounted  to 
a  fetish.  He  has  written  at  various  times  about 
Indian  and  other  folk-songs  and  he  has  devoted 
the  best  of  his  books  to  a  discussion  of  the  Negro 
song.  It  is  perhaps  unfortunate  that  his  interest 
has  been  that  of  the  crabbed  collector  who  pins  his 
[74] 


The   Folk-Son gs   of   Iowa 

butterflies  to  boards  rather  than  that  of  the  poet- 
observer  who  takes  joy  m  watching  the  multi- 
coloured insects,  like  so  many  animate  figures  cut 
out  of  glazed  chintz,  mount  into  the  ether  or, 
with  miniature  proboscides,  suck  the  nectar  from 
the  bending  foxglove.  Mr.  Krehbiel  is  a  von  Kol- 
liker  ^  rather  than  a  Fabre  or  a  Maeterlinck.  .  .  . 
Of  all  these,  however,  not  one,  not  a  single  one,  has 
thought  of  collecting  folk-songs  in  Iowa. 

Now  there  are  Indian  settlements  in  Iowa  and 
the  Bohemian  in  his  Czech  (not  his  ribald)  form 
settles  there  in  quantities.  Dvorak  spent  a  good 
part  of  his  American  visit  in  Iowa  and  it  is  the 
legend  that  a  large  portion  of  the  Symphoni/ 
from  the  New  World  was  written  there.  But  he 
could  not  have  heard  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot  and 
the  other  Negro  tunes  he  put  into  this  score  in  this 
middle  western  state.  I  was  born  in  a  town  in 
Iowa  where  at  least  half  the  population  is  of 
Slavic  origin  and  I  was  brought  up  on  Bohemian 
luUabys.  When  our  cook  was  in  good  humour 
she  sang  lusty  Czech  airs,  redolent  of  foaming 
amber  Pilzener  and  stamping  booted  feet,  waving 
ribboned  skirts,  embroidered  jackets,  and  elab- 
orately flowered  headdresses.     In  a  difl^erent  mood 

""  1  In  1842  R.  A.  von  KoUiker  described  the  formation  of 
the  blastoderm  in  the  egg  of  the  midge  chironomus. 

[75] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

she  thummed  nostalgic  melodies,  plaintive  in  their 
monotony.  But  the  search  for  the  Indian  and 
Bohemian  folk-song  in  Iowa  (and  I  am  certain 
that  there  is  an  unlimited  field  for  the  collector  in 
this  direction)  I  leave  to  others ;  it  occurred  to  me 
to  gather  in  the  folk-songs  of  the  Iowa  farmer,  the 
epic  of  the  com. 

There  are  villages  in  New  England;  there  are 
hamlets  in  England;  in  Iowa  there  are  cities  and 
towns.  Elsewhere  these  cities  would  be  called 
towns,  and  the  towns  villages  or  hamlets.  ...  In 
one  of  the  typical  cities  the  wide  streets  are  brick 
paved,  canopied  with  sweeping  elm  branches  which 
meet  like  Gothic  ogives  overhead;  there  are  rows 
of  old  wooden  houses  and  new  brick  or  plaster 
dwellings,  in  pseudo-English  or  colonial  style,  or, 
best  of  all,  stately  authentic  American  1870  man- 
sions and  these  are  surrounded  by  gardens  in 
which  roses,  day  lilies,  gladioli,  and  bleeding- 
hearts  bloom.  The  walls  of  many  houses  are 
clothed  in  purple  or  white  clematis,  or  wistaria, 
or  more  often  woodbine  or  English  ivy.  Every- 
where you  will  find  an  attempt  at  amateur  land- 
scape gardening  what  with  here  a  syringa,  there  a 
flaming  mountain  ash,  here  a  clump  of  lilac 
bushes,  there  a  row  of  blue  hydrangeas.  All  the 
vegetation  is  clean-cut,  attended  to,  matter-of- 
[76] 


The   Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

fact,  and  the  buildings  themselves,  whether  resi- 
dences or  outhouses,  give  the  same  impression  of 
prosperity.  So  do  the  city  parks,  that  facing 
the  railway  station  in  particular,  with  the  name  of 
the  town  embroidered  in  coleus  and  cockscombs  on 
a  sloping  bank  of  well-clipped  grass,  suggesting  a 
giant's  grave.  Churches,  schools,  libraries,  the- 
atres, moving  picture  auditoriums,  rise  in  magnifi- 
cence on  every  side.  There  must  be  a  school  for 
every  tenth  baby,  a  church  for  every  third.  Un- 
consciously priapic  spires  affront  the  tender  sky 
in  every  direction.  .  .  .  Nor  are  business  blocks 
lacking,  multifloored  business  blocks  with  eleva- 
tors and,  slightly  removed  from  the  main  thor- 
oughfares, factories  flaunt  their  gaunt  stacks, 
factories  employing  thousands  of  men.  Automo- 
biles, countless  automobiles.  Fords,  Rolls-Royces, 
and  Packards,  line  the  streets  along  the  curbs, 
buzz  along  the  numbered  streets  and  avenues.  I 
verily  believe  there  are  more  motor-cars  in  this 
Iowa  town  than  there  are  in  Monte  Carlo.  The 
very  atmosphere  spells  prosperity,  a  certain  ani- 
mal comfort,  and  unfortunately,  also,  a  certain 
sense  of  smugness.  This  then  is  an  Iowa  city, 
not  only  unlike  everything  else  in  the  world  in  its 
newly  painted  freshness,  its  air  of  up-to-dateness, 
the  greenness  of  its  foliage,  and  the  striking  self- 
[77] 


The    Folk-Songs   of   Iowa 

satisfaction  of  its  inhabitants,  but  also  sedulously 
aping  corners  in  Paris,  houses  in  Oxford,  walls  in 
Beaune,  gardens  at  Hampton  Court,  country  clubs 
at  Rye,  churches  at  Siena,  farmhouses  at  Ronda, 
and  banking  houses  in  Chicago.  This  could  be 
no  place  for  the  study  of  the  folk-song.  Here 
one  could  hear  only  the  music  of  Irving  Berlin  or 
Richard  Strauss,  Louis  A.  Hirsch  or  Puccini.  .  .  . 

So  one  very  hot  Iowa  day  —  and  hot  days  in 
Iowa  are  hotter  and  brighter  than  one  can  meet 
elsewhere  west  of  Verona  or  east  of  Arizona  —  I 
set  forth  from  this  pleasant  city  in  one  of  the  few 
buggies  which  remained  of  the  civilization  of  the 
eighties  or  the  nineties,  a  civilization  completely 
brushed  aside  by  the  rude  rush  of  modernity  in 
such  a  community.  There  is  indeed  more  of  the 
Rome  of  the  Empire  in  the  Rome  of  today  than 
there  is  of  the  Iowa  town  of  1870  in  the  Iowa  city 
of  today.  A  not  too  loquacious  driver  lounged  on 
the  ample  front  seat  and  I  sat  in  the  back  under 
the  shelter  of  a  black  leather  canopy.  Beside  me 
on  the  seat  I  had  placed  a  pile  of  blank  music 
paper,  a  tuning  fork,  and  an  instrument  capable 
of  making  phonographic  records. 

Iowa  towns  have  no  suburbs.  You  pass  quickly 
from  the  town  itself  into  the  farming  country,  for 
the  towns  are  built  compactly  so  as  not  to  inter- 
[78] 


The   Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 


fere  with  the  growing  of  the  corn  which  is  the  chief 
occupation  of  the  state.  Indeed,  for  a  certain 
time  in  the  summer,  the  one  concern,  the  unfailing 
topic  of  conversation  is  the  weather,  not  only  in 
the  country  but  also  in  the  towns.  Dry  hot 
weather  is  essential  for  the  complete  growth  of  the 
com  and  on  the  complete  growth  of  the  corn  de- 
pends the  economic  stride  of  the  state.  Bank 
stocks,  the  price  of  dry  goods  and  green  groceries, 
rents  and  dressmakers'  bills  are  all  affected  by  a 
bad  corn  year. 

The  Iowa  scene  has  been  infrequently  described 
in  literature  and  no  writer,  I  think,  has  as  yet 
done  justice  to  it.  There  is,  indeed,  a  feeling  that 
the  Iowa  scene  is  unworthy  of  description,  as  it  is 
usually  imagined  as  a  fecund  but  unbeautiful  coun- 
try laid  out  in  flat  squares.  The  contrary  is  the 
case.  This  fair  land  is  unusually  personal  in  its 
appeal,  and  its  beauty,  which  may  not  be  appre- 
ciated by  those  who  glance  at  it  casually  from  the 
back  of  an  observation  car  on  the  Overland  Lim- 
ited, is  in  the  end  very  haunting.  Indeed  to  me 
the  Iowa  scene  has  a  kind  of  picturesqueness  which 
I  do  not  find  elsewhere  in  the  United  States. 
Pennsylvania  or  Connecticut,  for  instance,  too 
often  remind  me  of  England,  but  Iowa  is  essen- 
tially American.  Far  from  being  flat  the  ground 
[79] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

is  constantly  rolling  so  that  when,  as  often  hap- 
pens, the  unhindered  view  exposes  only  fields  of 
corn  in  every  direction,  the  light  dry  wind  playing 
over  the  green  and  tasseled  stalks  in  the  hot,  the 
very  hot  sunglare,  the  effect  is  produced  of  the 
undulation  of  the  waves  in  a  southern  sea,  and  the 
magnificent  monotony  of  the  prospect  accentuates 
the  comparison.  There  is,  indeed,  to  be  found  in 
the  state  of  Iowa  a  kind  of  inspiration  usually  only 
associated  with  great  rivers,  high  mountains  or 
that  mighty  monster  ocean,  "  that  liest  curl'd  like 
a  green  serpent  round  about  the  world." 

But  there  are  other  pictures  which  interrupt 
the  corn  fields.  Brooks  abound,  bubbling  joy- 
ously over  white-stoned  sandy  beds,  over  which 
bend  willow  trees  .  .  .  and  now  and  then  a  copse 
of  woods,  not  a  stately  Michigan  forest  but  a  de- 
lightfully brushy  congeries  of  trees  and  under- 
brush, an  overgrown  spinny  in  which  lindens,  elms, 
and  the  comfortable  maple,  which  later  will  illu- 
mine the  landscape  with  all  the  hues  of  a  Bakst 
canvas,  rear  their  modest  heights  over  the  heads 
of  hazel  shrub  and  sumac  which  in  turn  shelter  the 
milkweed  and  the  prickly  thistle.  The  shade  is 
never  intense,  the  copse  is  never  cool ;  the  warm 
rays  of  the  sun  penetrate  the  fragile  covering  of 
leaves  as  easilv  as  they  would  the  laced  panels  of 
[80] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

a  sunshade  held  by  a  languid  English  lady  on  a 
Maidenhead  lawn.  Striped  chipmunks  hustle  and 
bustle  through  the  dead  leaves  that  carpet  the 
sandy  soil.  Field  mice  and  toads  are  friendly  ene- 
mies. There  are  a  few  squirrels.  Deer,  fox,  and 
bears  have  long  since  disappeared  from  a  region 
which  offers  so  little  security  to  the  pursued.  The 
settled  hum  of  the  cicada  becomes  a  burden  in  the 
overheated  air  at  times  too  terrible  to  be  borne, 
and  then  again  in  the  intensity  of  its  rhythm  it  be- 
comes possible  to  forget  it  and  to  listen  to  the 
lesser  chirping  of  the  cricket. 

The  road  passes  over  a  wooden  bridge,  roughly 
railed ;  the  boards  clatter  under  the  untired  wheels 
of  the  buggy.  We  lean  out  to  one  side  and  catch 
a  glimmer  of  silver  trout  in  the  stream  below,  the 
quick  flash  of  a  mammoth  dragon  fly,  darning 
needle  is  the  local  name,  a  darning  needle  instinct 
with  gorgeous  sheeny  sapphire  and  emerald. 
Now  we  are  out  of  the  woods  and  passing  through 
acres  of  corn  land  again.  .  .  .  There  are  no 
rough  rail  fences  in  Iowa,  no  stone  fences  .  .  .  only 
barbed  wire,  extended  tautly  from  post  to  post. 
On  these  shining  wires,  like  so  many  brazen  wire 
walkers  in  blue  tights,  strut  the  tiny,  saucy  blue- 
birds, or  they  sit  in  straight  rows.  Lacking  fence 
wires  they  seek  the  telegraph  wires.  Bronze 
[81] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

grackles,  rose-breasted  grossbeaks,  scarlet  tana- 
gers,  yellow  warblers,  and  red-winged  blackbirds 
make  a  vast  Manila  shawl  on  the  blue  ground  of 
the  sky.  The  meadow-lark  soars,  a  hawk  swoops 
low,  and  a  crow  calls.  Caw !  Caw  !  Caw !  The  silly 
mew  of  the  cat-bird  assails  our  ear  from  the  neigh- 
bouring bush,  the  woodpecker  taps  in  the  maple 
tree  and  the  cuckoo's  thieving  note  is  sounded. 

We  pass  a  workman  in  the  fields.  Is  this  the 
Iowa  peasant?  He  guides  a  horse  with  a  harrow 
through  the  straight  aisles  that  separate  the  rows 
of  com.  But  he  does  not  sing.  He  is  silent,  al- 
though occasionally  he  calls  out  "  Gee  up !  "  to  the 
beast  ahead,  but  he  does  not  interrupt  the  cherup- 
ing  of  the  pretty  yellow  warblers,  the  constant 
burden  of  the  cicadae,  the  buzz  of  the  locusts,  so 
like  the  sound  of  an  automobile.  The  horse 
neighs.  The  intense  heat,  serving  as  conductor, 
accentuates  this  symphony  of  Nature,  brings  out 
the  different  voices. 

But  now  ahead,  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  I  do 
hear  singing.  I  urge  my  driver  to  make  speed. 
He  clucks  to  our  horse  and  the  buggy  rolls  rapidly 
on.  We  make  the  top  of  the  hill  and  a  few  steps 
below  its  crest  a  school  house  is  exposed  to  view. 
This  is  the  source  of  the  music.  The  school 
children  are  singing,  Good  morning,  merry  sun- 
[82] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

shin€  .  .  .  and  as  we  disappear  in  the  distance  we 
hear  Mz/  country,  His  of  thee  .  .  . 

The  farm  in  Iowa  is  not  a  careless  congeries. 
The  yard  is  not  strewn  with  rusting  machinery  and 
rotting  wheelbarrows.  The  farm  in  Iowa  is  in  its 
own  way  as  magnificent  as  the  chateau  in  France. 
The  house,  it  is  true,  is  often  insignificant,  a  simple 
white,  clap-boarded  structure,  with  a  few  shade 
trees,  but  the  outlying  buildings  sound  the  true 
imperial  note.  An  artesian  well  or  wind-mill,  a 
tower  of  gleaming  steel,  imitates  the  Tour  Eiffel ; 
the  ample  siloes  are  as  imposing  in  their  cylindrical 
whiteness  as  the  turrets  of  a  robber  baron's  castle 
on  the  Rhine ;  the  barns,  the  stables,  the  hog-pens, 
and  the  chicken  yards  are  beyond  all  eastern 
dreams  of  country  grandeur.  Business  is  abroad. 
EflSciency  is  in  the  land.  The  Iowa  farmer  ac- 
cepts orders  over  his  telephone  and  delivers  them 
in  his  motor  truck. 

Passing  such  a  farm  we  note  several  more  men 
silently  working  in  the  fields.  They  greet  us  so- 
berly. There  is  no  gaiety  in  the  heart  of  the  Iowa 
farmer.  No  joy  ...  no  song!  The  farmer's 
wife,  a  plain  slender  woman  in  simple  calico,  is 
standing  on  the  porch  of  her  little  white  house, 
partially  hidden  among  the  evergreen  trees.  We 
wave  to  her,  and  she  waves  her  hand  in  return, 
[83] 


The   Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

although  obviously  somewhat  puzzled  over  our 
identity.  Then  I  quickly  call  to  my  man  to  stop 
and  leaping  out  of  my  shandrydan  into  the  road  I 
run  lightly  up  the  gravel  path. 

"  We  don't  want  to  buy  nothin',"  are  the  lady's 
first  words ;  "  nothin'  at  all." 

"  I  don't  want  to  sell  nothin',  neither,"  I  retort. 
"  Does  any  one  here  sing?  " 

"  Be  you  a  music  teacher?  Or  a  piano  tuner? 
My  darter  sings  sometimes." 

"  No,  I'm  not  a  teacher.  ...  I  like  music." 

The  farmer's  wife  begins  to  look  queer.  I  see 
her  eyes  wander  to  the  spot  in  the  yard  where 
Towser's  kennel  stands.  Towser's  head  pro- 
trudes, a  wicked  bulldog  head.  Towser  growls 
tentatively  and  waits  for  the  signal.  I  prepare  to 
die  .  .  .  but  the  woman  decides  to  humour  my 
strange  request  or  perhaps  she  is  lonesome. 

"  Aggie,"  she  calls,  "  Aggie." 

"  What  is  it,  ma  ?  "  a  shrill  voice  demands  from 
the  lima  bean  patch. 

"  Come  here  a  minute." 

In  due  time  Aggie  comes  forward,  a  fat,  freckled 

girl  with  hair  which  would  be  called  in  a  cat  show 

"  any  other  colour."     She  is  dressed  in  a  blue  skirt 

and  a  red  flannel  dressing  sacque.     She  carries  a 

[84] 


The   Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

pan  of  pods  in  one  hand.  With  the  other  she 
fingers  the  tied  ends  of  a  sunbonnet. 

"  There's  a  music  man  here." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  hear  some  sing- 
ing. .  .  .  Don't  you  ever  sing  among  your- 
selves ?  " 

Aggie  giggles.  Ma  even  allows  her  worried, 
wrinkled  face  to  break  into  a  slight  smile. 
Towser  stops  growling. 

"  Just  you  sit  on  the  piazza  a  minute,"  Aggie 
suggests.  She  passes  the  portal.  Ma  and  I  sit 
down  on  two  uncomfortable  wooden  chairs.  I 
have  forgotten  my  music  paper,  my  tuning  fork, 
my  phonographic  apparatus,  but  it  is  too  late. 
Aggie  touches  the  keys  of  an  invisible  piano ;  my 
God,  folk-songs  are  not  composed  for  the  piano ; 
has  she  perhaps  misunderstood?  Aggie  is  sing- 
ing, loudly  and  unmistakably,  Aggie  is  singing: 

"  Oh ev'ry  evening  hear  him  sing. 

It's  the  cutest  little  thing, 
Got  the  cutest  little  swing, 
Hitchy  Koo,  Hitchy  Koo,  Hitchy  Koo  .  .  ." 

"  Very  pretty,"  I  gasp.     "  Very  pretty." 
"  Come  on  in  the  parlour,"  Ma  says. 
We  go  into  a  low  ceilinged  room,  with  framed 
[85] 


The   Folk-Songs   of   Iowa 

pictures  from  the  Sunday  supplements  of  the  Chi- 
cago newspapers.  High  in  the  wall  in  one  corner 
is  the  tin  stopper  of  the  stove-pipe  hole.  Stove 
and  pipe  have  disappeared  for  the  summer.  The 
furniture  is  early  Grand  Rapids,  a  trifle  worn; 
the  carpet  is  red  and  green  ingrain.  The  piano  is 
black  and  upright.  Aggie  is  fumbling  in  a  music 
cabinet.  Presently  she  goes  back  to  the  piano 
and  begins  again: 

"  From  the  land  of  the  sky  bloo  waaa  —  tur  .  .  ." 

Aggie's  third  choice  is  even  more  inspired: 

"  Pale  haaands  that  float  beside  the  .  .  ." 

So  do  I  discover  a  bond  between  Iowa  and  May- 
fair!  Did  Cecil  Sharp  learn  more  in  his  Ap- 
palachian travels.?  I  doubt  it.  I  thank  Aggie,  I 
thank  Ma,  I  even  speak  to  Towser  as  I  pass  the 
kennel  and  hurry  on  to  the  buggy.  I  wake  up  my 
Sancho  Panza,  snoozing  on  the  front  seat  and  we 
once  more  are  underway. 

More  corn  fields,  more  copses,  more  birds  and 
butterflies,  more  stern  and  sober  workers,  occa- 
sionally an  automobile  passes  us,  occasionally  a 
wagon  loaded  with  crates  of  vegetables  or  chick- 
ens. A  new  sight  is  a  duck  yard.  Hundreds  of 
white  birds,  huddled  in  pens  with  stretches  of  water 
[86] 


The   Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

like  canals  in  Holland.  In  the  next  corn  field  a 
quaint  scarecrow,  clothed  in  blue  overalls  and  a 
long  frock  coat.  On  his  head  a  sombrero  tied 
with  a  gay  red  bandana. 

An  hour  later  we  drive  up  to  another  farm  house 
to  give  our  Rozinante  food  and  water.  Our  com- 
panion on  the  front  seat  drives  the  steed  to  the 
stables.  I  enter  the  farmhouse  kitchen  where  the 
gaunt  housewife  prepares  the  mid-day  meal,  din- 
ner, it  is  called  in  Iowa.  She  nods  a  curt  good 
day  and  answers  my  request  for  dinner  in  the  af- 
firmative. I  have  become  more  circumspect. 
Tea  stands  on  the  stove  stewing;  tea  is  always 
stewed  in  Iowa;  black  and  strong  it  stews  in  the 
kettle.  Sometimes  the  kettle  with  its  strong  black 
residue  stands  for  days  unmolested  at  the  back  of 
the  stove,  save  for  the  pouring  out  of  cupfuls  of 
the  liquid  and  the  replenishing  of  water  and  green 
tea  leaves.  Steaks  cut  as  thin  as  sandwiches  in 
Mayfair  are  frying.  Grilling  is  an  unknown  art 
in  these  regions.  Vegetables  are  boiling  in  pots  of 
milk.  Watch  the  patient  housewife  as  she  cuts 
the  long  and  splendid  asparagus  stalks  into  minute 
bits  which  she  tosses  dexterously  into  the  boiling 
kettle.  A  great  green  head  of  lettuce  fresh  from 
the  garden  is  thrown  into  the  wooden  chopping 
bowl  and  soon  reduced  to  atoms  which  are  pres- 
[87] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

ently  drowned  in  vinegar.  But  during  all  these 
operations  and  the  preparing  of  griddle  cakes, 
buckwheat  griddle  cakes,  there  is  no  singing,  ex- 
cept that  furnished  by  the  tea-kettle,  nor  is  there 
much  conversation,  although  two  women  are  assist- 
ing the  housewife.  The  women  bustle  about  but 
they  do  not  talk.  The  farm  hands  come  in  and 
eat  from  the  heavily  laden  unclothed  table.  Food 
is  shoveled  into  the  mouth  without  respite  but  still 
the  tongues  do  not  speak.  Only  occasionally  some 
one  asks  a  question,  which  is  usually  replied  to 
TOonosyllabically.  Dinner  over  I  tremblingly  ask 
for  a  song. 

"  Song,"  says  the  farmer.  "  We  haven't  got  no 
time  for  songs." 

A  maidservant  titters.     So  does  my  Sancho. 

"  I  guess  the  city  feller's  crazy,"  I  hear  a  husky 
whisper  from  the  corner. 

The  farm  hands  file  out.  I  thank  the  house- 
wife and  attempt  to  pay  the  reckoning  but  she 
waves  away  the  money. 

"  We  don't  take  no  boarders,"  she  says,  "  but 
strangers  is  always  welcome,  leastwise  if  there 
ain't  too  many  of  us  eatin'.  We  can't  take  'em  in 
at  harvest  time." 

Sancho  puts  the  steed  back  into  the  traces. 
The  buggy  starts,  leaps  forward  into  the  road  and 
[88] 


The   Folk-Songs  of  Iowa 

soon  we  have  left  the  farmhouse  far  behind.  .  .  . 
The  sun  is  lowering,  the  shadows  fall  long. 
Sancho  leans  back  confidentially. 

"  Say,  feller,"  speaks  our  squire ;  "  say,  feller,  if 
you  want  ter  hear  some  singin'  there's  a  farmer 
over  here  that's  got  a  religion  bug.  Most  every 
day  after  dinner  somebody's  singin'  hymns  for  an 
hour.  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,  At  the  Cross, 
and  all  those." 

I  smile  feebly  and  shake  my  head.  Why  is  it 
that  Natalie  Burlin,  Loraine  Wyman,  Frances 
Densmore,  and  Cecil  Sharp  can  go  out  in  the 
morning  and  return  at  night  with  a  bundle  of 
songs  in  Mixolydian,  Dorian,  and  ^olian  modes.'' 
Reluctantly  I  give  the  signal  to  proceed  back  to 
the  city.  I  remember  that  once  in  Shoreditch  I 
had  a  similar  experience.  Seeking  the  cheapest 
of  the  music  halls,  I  entered  to  find  myself  sur- 
rounded by  cockneys  so  bebuttoned  that  they 
seemed  to  have  ransacked  all  the  button  factories, 
the  females  so  befeathered  that  all  the  bedraggled 
plumes  in  the  world  seemed  to  have  been  collected 
in  that  house.  At  last,  I  muttered  to  myself,  I 
will  hear  a  good  racy  Cockney  comic  song.  The 
lights  went  low;  a  white  screen  replaced  the  drop 
curtain.  ...  It  was  before  the  days  of  moving 
pictures ;  the  evidence  pointed  to  an  illustrated 
[89] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

song.  A  scrawny  female  in  a  dirty  pink  satin 
dress  walked  out.  "  Tike  me  'ome  to  owld  New 
'Ampshire,  mother  dear,"  were  her  very  words. 
The  picture  on  the  screen  was  Times  Square  by 
moonlight. 

The  tongues  of  the  farmers  had  been  still ;  even 
the  farmers'  wives  had  been  comparatively  silent. 
They  had  not  worked  in  the  corn  fields  to  the 
accompaniment  of  some  broad  sweeping  rhythm ;  I 
had  not  heard  the  suggestion  of  a  pentatonic 
scale.  .  .  .  But  as  we  drove  back  in  silence 
through  this  splendid  region  it  came  to  me  that 
Iowa  has  her  own  folk-songs.  The  melody  of  the 
yellow  warbler,  the  soft  low  call  of  the  brown 
thrasher,  the  entrancing  aspirational  cry  of  the 
meadow  lark  mounting  to  heaven,  the  whippoorwill 
shouting  his  own  name,  the  caw  of  the  crow,  the 
tap,  tap,  tap,  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker,  the 
shrill  raucous  shout  of  the  magisterial  and  quar- 
relsome blue  jay,  the  heart-breaking  dirge-like 
moan  of  the  mourning  dove,  the  memory  of  all 
these  reminded  me  that  Iowa  has  her  folk-songs, 
but  the  corn  itself,  the  unserried  ranks  of  green 
tassel-bearing  stalks  growing,  almost  visibly 
growing,  in  the  hot  cicada-burdened  atmosphere, 
sings,  it  seems  to  me,  the  noblest  song  of  all.  The 
corn  song,  beginning,  no  doubt,  if  one  could 
[90] 


The   Folk-Songs   of  Iowa 

transcribe  its  runic  accents  into  our  rude  Iowa 
English,  "  I  am  the  corn  I  "  a  noble  line,  a  magnifi- 
cent refrain  which  is  repeated  as  far  as  the  eye 
and  ear  can  reach. 

I  Am  the  Corn!  is  the  folk-song  of  Iowa  and  can 
it  be  said  that  any  other  state  or  nation  has  pro- 
duced a  better  song? 

December  19,  1918, 


[91] 


Isaac  Albeniz 

"  That's  a  hrave  god,  and  bearest  celestial  liquor: 
I  will  kneel  to  him." 

Caliban. 


Isaac  Albeniz 


SINCE  the  days  when,  so  the  legend  has  it, 
Guido  d'Arezzo  improved  the  monochord, 
through  the  lifetime  of  the  virginal,  the 
clavicytherium,  the  harpsichord,  the  clavichord, 
and  the  spinet,  the  invention  of  the  pianoforte  by 
Cristofori,  to  that  more  modern  period  of  Bech- 
stein,  Broadwood,  Pleyel,  Steinway,  Chickering, 
and  Knabe,  composers  for  these  stringed  instru- 
ments of  the  same  family  have  sought  inspiration 
in  the  folk-dance.  Pavans  and  galliards  abound 
in  the  music  of  the  old  English  virginalists. 
Henry  Purcell  often  chose  such  titles  as  chacone, 
corant,  jig,  minuet,  rigadoon,  march,  and  horn- 
pipe. Couperin's  fancifully  named  pieces,  among 
which  I  might  mention  La  Prude,  La  Seduisantey 
and  Le  Bavolet  Flottant,  are  really  dances ;  some 
of  them  he  has  frankly  labelled  gavotte,  gigue,  and 
menuet.  The  sonata  form,  of  course,  is  based  on 
these  old  suites  of  dance  tunes  and  some  of  the 
titles  of  movements  in  the  sonatas  of  Haydn, 
Mozart  and  Beethoven,  scherzo,  menuet,  and 
rondo,  bear  witness  to  this  fact.  Schubert  wrote 
[95] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


polonaises  and  rondos  and  many  of  Schumann's 
melodies  move  gracefully  to  dance  rhythms. 
Chopin's  profession  of  faith  was  made  to  the  Muse 
Terpsichore.  He  wrote  the  proudest  polonaises, 
the  most  majestic  of  mazurkas,  waltzes  which 
Schumann  refused  to  play  for  dancers  unless  half 
the  women  were  countesses!  What  are  Liszt's 
Rhapsodies  but  gipsy  dances,  arrangements  of  the 
Czardas  form  in  which  the  dancer  by  signalling  the 
orchestra  dances  faster  or  more  slowly  at  will? 

It  is  not  therefore  an  innovation  for  the  modern 
Spanish  composers,  who  seem  to  be  busy  founding 
a  school,  to  seek  inspiration  in  dance  forms,  but 
there  is  perhaps  a  more  logical  reason  for  their 
doing  so  than  can  be  instanced  in  the  examples  I 
have  cited,  for  the  dance  is  assuredly  the  national 
musical  form  of  Spain,  where  singing,  most  often, 
serves  as  part  of  the  accompaniment  to  waving 
arms  and  tapping  feet.  The  founder  ^  of  this 
modem  school  of  Spanish  composition,  at  least  so 
far  as  the  pianoforte  is  concerned,  was  Isaac 
Albeniz,  who,  like  Liszt  and  Rubinstein,  made  a 
great  name  for  himself  as  a  virtuoso,  and  who  left 

1  Of  course  no  one  actually  "  founds  "  anything.  What  I 
mean  to  say  is  that,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  Iberia  of  Albania 
is  the  modern  Spanish  composer's  Bible.  But  Iberia,  which 
finally  bloomed  in  France,  grew  from  Spanish  seed.  Felipe 
Pedrell,  who  still  lives,  possibly  gave  it  to  Albeniz. 

[96] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


behind  him  besides  several  hundred  pieces  for  the 
piano,  several  operas  and  zarzuelas,  and  a  good- 
sized  pile  of  orchestral  and  chamber  music.  Dur- 
ing his  life  time  Albeniz  was  certainly  not  consid- 
ered as  a  composer  of  the  first  rank,  although  it 
cannot  be  said  that  he  lacked  for  appreciation  of 
a  kind,  and  even  since  his  death  there  has  been 
but  a  vague  attempt  made  to  classify  his  work  and 
to  rate  him  as  he  deserves  to  be  rated.  ^     It  is  be- 

1  The  musical  dictionaries  are  not  very  fortunate  in  their 
references  to  Albeniz.  In  the  last  edition  of  Grove  a  short, 
inadequate  paragraph  is  allotted  to  him;  the  added  notes  in 
the  appendix  are  inaccurate.  The  third  edition  of  Baker's 
Dictionary,  a  work  on  a  much  smaller  scale,  gives  him  a 
little  more  space.  Riemann,  too,  is  more  generous,  but 
neither  of  these  accounts  is  illuminating  or  sufficiently  in- 
forming. More  is  to  be  found  in  Espasa's  Spanish  Encyclo- 
pedia, but  the  volume  containing  Alb^niz's  biography  was 
published  before  his  death. 

Pedrell  has  a  fine  paper  on  Alb6niz  in  his  book,  "  Mii- 
sicos  contempordneos  y  otros  tiempos."  G.  Jean-Aubry's 
"Isaac  Albeniz"  in  the  "Musical  Times"  (London;  Decem- 
ber I,  1917)  is  interesting  from  a  biographical  point  of  view. 
F.  Forster  BuflPen,  in  his  "Musical  Celebrities,"  second  se- 
ries (London;  Chapman  and  Hall,  1893),  gives  a  picture  of 
the  virtuoso  at  the  height  of  his  London  career.  H.  J. 
Storer's  "Isaac  Albeniz"  in  "The  Musician"  (Boston;  May 
29,  1916)  is  not  very  important.  Hermann  Klein  writes  of 
Alb^niz's  opera,  Pepita  Jimenez,  in  the  "  Musical  Times " 
(London;  March  1,  1918)  and  Ernest  Newman  has  a  paper 
on  the  opera  Merlin,  in  "The  New  Witness"  (London; 
September  20,  1917),  but  by  far  the  best  attempt  yet  made 
to  classify  his  work  is  Joseph  de  Marliave's  essay  in  his 
book,  "fitudes  Musicales"    (Paris;   1917).     It  will  readily 

[97] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


ginning  to  be  bruited  about,  however,  that  here  is 
a  fine  example  of  the  national  composer,  like 
Moussorgsky  or  Chopin,  and  it  is  occasionally 
whispered,  although  as  yet  in  very  hushed  voices, 
that  he  has  written  a  series  of  pieces  which  add  to 
the  clang-tints  and  technique  of  the  piano,  and 
which  for  emotional  content,  nervous  rhythm,  and 
descriptive  power  may  be  set  beside  only  the  very 
great  works  composed  for  that  instrument. 

These  pieces  are  called  collectively  Iberia  and 
were  written  shortly  before  Albeniz's  death,  after  a 
course  of  study  with  Vincent  d'Indy  (it  may  be 
said  of  this  composer  that  he  was  studying  all  his 
Jife;  the  list  of  his  professors  reads  like  the  fac- 
ulty pages  in  the  catalogue  of  a  large  university). 
The  twelve  pieces  to  which  he  has  given  this  gen- 
eric title  will  successfully  preserve  his  name 
against  the  erasures  of  Time.  They  are  more  and 
more  becoming  an  essential  part  of  the  slowly 
growing  repertory  of  concert  pianists  and  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  they  form  a  link  in  that 
chain  which  began  with  Bach,  was  carried  on 
through  Mozart,  Beethoven,  Weber,  Schumann, 
Schubert,  Chopin,  Liszt,  and  Brahms,  and  which  at 
the  present  day  includes  beyond  question  Debussy 

be  apparent  that  all  of  these  articles  lie  out  of  the  reach 
of  the  general  reader. 

[98] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


and  Ravel,  and  possibly  Schoenberg  and  Ornstein, 
although  that  remains  to  be  proved.  Iberia^  then, 
is  not  only  the  best  piano  music  which  has  come  out 
of  Spain  (other  composers  have  surpassed  Albeniz 
in  the  composition  of  songs,  orchestral  pieces, 
operas,  and  zarzuelas)  but  also  music  which  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  may  be  placed  side  by  side  with 
the  best  music  written  for  the  piano  anywhere. 


II 


The  story  of  Albeniz's  career  has  a  picaresque 
flavour  which  is  truly  Spanish.  Artist-Spaniards, 
it  would  seem,  never  stay  at  home,  or  if  they  do 
they  embark  on  wild  and  extravagant  adventures. 
The  life  of  Cervantes  reads  like  a  romance,  and 
Cervantes,  perhaps,  had  the  typical  Spanish  tem- 
perament. The  novelist,  Alarcon,  was  a  soldier 
and  man  of  the  world.  Blasco  Ibanez  is  a  poli- 
tician and  revolutionist.  It  is  said  that  he  has 
been  in  jail  thirty  times.  Some  Spanish  com- 
posers, like  Victoria,  have  gone  to  Rome;  others, 
like  de  Falla  and  Usandizaga  have  gone  to  Paris, 
Albeniz  went  everywhere,  even  to  America.  He 
was  born  on  May  29,  1860  ^  at  Camprodon,  prov- 

1  There    is   some   dispute   about  this   date.     Grove's   Dic- 
tionary, Baker's   Dictionary,   and   H.  J.   Storer   give  it  as 

[99] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


ince  of  Gerona,  one  of  five  children  of  Angel  and 
Dolores  Albeniz.  Soon  after  his  birth  events  so 
shaped  themselves  that  his  father  found  it  neces- 
sary to  carry  him,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  on  a  very 
stormy  night  to  a  nurse  capable  of  satisfying  his 
enormous  appetite,  which  did  not  diminish  as  he 
grew  older.  His  father  was  a  government  of- 
ficial at  Barcelona;  neither  of  his  parents  was 
musical,  but  his  eldest  sister  played  the  piano, 
and  young  Isaac  listened  to  her  with  such  delight 
that  she  began  to  teach  him  to  play  while  he  was 
yet  a  baby.  He  gave  his  first  recital  at  the 
Romea  Theatre  in  Barcelona  at  the  age  of  four,^ 
and  played  so  well  that  the  audience  seemed  to 
have  suspected  a  trick,  a  figure  hidden  behind  a 
screen  or  some  such  contrivance!  Later  his 
mother  took  him  and  his  sister  to  Paris  where  they 
studied  with  Antoine-Fran9ois  Marmontel.  The 
boy  soon  conceived  the  ambition  of  competing  for 
a  conservatory  prize  and  he  actually  did  so  at  the 
age  of  a  little  more  than  six!  After  he  had  fin- 
ished playing  he  rose  from  the  stool,  drew  a  hard 

1861,  and  so  do  I  in  "The  Music  of  Spain/'  Espasa,  Rie- 
mann,  and  G.  Jean-Aubry  give  1860. 

1  Buffen  says  that  this  appearance  was  made  at  the  age 
of  seven,  after  his  return  from  Paris.  He  played  Dussek's 
sonata,  Les  Adieux,  and  the  last  movement  of  Weber's 
Concertstiick  in  F  minor. 

[100] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


rubber  ball  from  his  pocket,  and  hurled  it  with  all 
his  force  at  one  of  the  large  mirrors  in  the  room, 
which  was  shattered  into  bits.  This  mad  juvenile 
prank,  a  foreshadowing  of  his  later  fantastic  ex- 
uberance, his  love  of  jokes  and  gaiety,  qualities 
which  fight  with  rich  emotion  and  deep  sentiment 
for  precedence  in  his  music,  locked  the  doors  of 
the  conservatory  to  him  for  two  years. 

He  returned  to  Spain  in  1868  and  began  to  study 
at  the  Conservatory  of  Madrid,  whence  his  fam- 
ily had  removed  from  Barcelona.  It  is  probable 
that  his  teacher  at  this  period  was  Ajero  y  Mendi- 
zabal.  A  year  later  he  ran  away  from  home  but, 
with  the  good  fortune  which  usually  attended  his 
movements,  he  met  the  Alcalde  of  Escorial  who 
was  so  amused  and  impressed  by  the  boy  that  he 
arranged  a  concert  for  him  at  the  Escorial  Casino. 
Isaac's  playing  on  this  occasion  made  something  of 
a  sensation.  Now  the  good  Alcalde  sent  him  home 
but  Isaac,  having  gold  in  his  purse,  the  proceeds 
of  the  concert,  quit  the  train  at  Villalba  and 
took  one  going  in  the  opposite  direction,  giving 
concerts  at  Avila,  Zamora,  and  Salamanca.  Then 
a  whim  urged  him  to  return  home  and  he  would 
have  done  so  but  he  was  set  upon  by  bandits  and 
robbed  of  his  savings.  So  for  two  or  three  years, 
el  nino  Albeniz,  as  it  was  the  custom  to  call  him  at 
[101] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


this  epoch,  wandered  over  Spain  giving  concerts. 
Finally  he  did  return  to  his  father's  house,  only  to 
run  away  again,  however,  this  time  to  Cadiz. 
From  this  port  he  embarked  as  a  stowaway  on  a 
vessel  bound  for  Porto  Rico.  This  must  have 
been  about  1872  when  Isaac  was  eleven  or  twelve 
years  old.  Soon  after  embarkation  he  was  discov- 
ered (probably  his  appetite  drove  him  from  his 
hiding  place)  but  he  gave  concerts  on  board  and 
his  playing  and  his  very  considerable  amount  of 
charm  made  him  so  popular  that  he  left  the  ship 
with  a  sheaf  of  letters  of  introduction  from  influ- 
ential passengers.  He  gave  more  concerts  in 
Porto  Rico  and  then  came  to  the  United  States 
where  he  was  often  without  funds  and,  indeed,  suf- 
fered great  privations,  but  he  met  with  some  suc- 
cess, particularly  in  San  Francisco. 

His  father  had  been  making  business  trips 
through  various,  places  in  South  and  Central  Amer- 
ica during  the  winter  of  1873.  Visiting  Havana, 
he  was  surprised  to  see  a  concert  announced  by  his 
son.  He  attended  this  concert,  a  reconciliation 
took  place,  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  boy 
should  go  to  Germany  for  further  study,  on  the 
proceeds  of  what  money  he  had  made  during  his 
American  tour.  He  sailed  for  England  and  G. 
Jean-Aubry  says  that  he  gave  concerts  in  Liver- 
[102] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


pool  and  London ;  his  London  friends  seem  to  think 
he  made  his  first  appearance  there  in  1889.  Be 
that  as  it  may  he  went  on  to  Leipsic  and  studied 
piano  with  Salomon  Jadassohn  and  composition 
with  Carl  Reinecke.  Again  he  ran  out  of  money. 
He  applied  to  his  father  for  aid  which  was  re- 
fused but  in  1876  he  returned  to  Madrid  and 
sought  an  audience  with  the  King  (Alfonso  XII) 
himself,  who  granted  him  a  pension,  sufficient  for 
his  immediate  needs.  Young  Isaac  now  left  for 
Brussels  where  he  studied  harmony  with  Joseph 
Dupont,  counterpart  and  fugue  with  H.  F.  Kuf- 
ferath,  composition  with  Fran9ois  Gevaert,  and 
piano  with  Louis  Brassin.  Brassin,  who  was 
painter  as  well  as  musician,  afterwards  said  that 
his  brushes  flew  faster  if  he  could  get  Albeniz  to 
play  for  him.  The  financial  results  of  a  concert 
at  Brussels  enabled  him  to  carry  out  a  long  cher- 
ished ambition,  to  study  with  Franz  Liszt.  About 
1877  he  left  for  Weimar.  Biographers  of  Liszt 
have  seemingly  omitted  to  be  impressed  by  this 
incident.  There  is  little  record  of  the  two  years 
Albeniz  spent  with  Liszt,  but  it  is  known  that  the 
-pupil  followed  the  master  to  Rome  and  later  to 
Buda-Pesth. 

Albeniz  had  already  had  many  masters;  he  was 
destined  to  have  more  and  this  fact  seems  open  to 
[103] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


some  misconception.  Pedrell  asserts  that  as  a 
composer  he  was  largely  an  autodidact.  "  Artis- 
tic temperaments  like  his  are  not  teachable,"  he 
continues.  "  They  carry  their  destiny  within 
themselves.  One  can  only  guide  them  to  prevent 
their  wasting  the  flow  of  their  inspiration.  Dry, 
hard,  cold  rules  only  upset  them."  Pedrell  says 
that  the  lessons  he  gave  Albeniz  were  in  reality 
only  "  half-humorous  colloquies  between  two 
friends.  We  talked  about  music,  good  and  bad 
taste,  etc.     There  was  no  hint  of  pedagogy." 

He  appears  to  have  been  a  very  fine  pianist 
with  unique  gifts  and  a  special  style.  "  He  was," 
says  Joseph  de  Marliave,  "  without  show,  vir- 
tuosoism,  or  pose,  a  dazzling  pianist,  a  male,  vig- 
orous, magnificently  passionate  pianist,  judicious 
in  his  interpretation,  profoundly  artistic  and 
comprehensive."  Pedrell  says,  "  I  heard  Rubin- 
stein plays  his  works  for  a  roomful  of  friends,  but 
I  did  not  feel  the  cold  shiver  which  went  through 
me  when  Albeniz  performed  his  own  works  for  us 
with  a  fire  which,  as  can  be  easily  understood, 
drove  the  London  public  mad."  And  this  from 
one  of  the  London  critics,  "  He  is  one  of  the  best 
pianists  we  have  heard  since  Liszt.  He  reminds 
us  of  Rubinstein  in  his  delicacy  and  Hans  von 
[104] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


Billow  in  his  vigour."     He  was  especially  effective 
in  the  performance  of  his  own  works. 

In  1880  Albeniz  began  a  series  of  triumphal 
piano  tours  through  Cuba,  Mexico,  the  Argentine 
Republic,  and  Spain  itself.  Then  he  became  man- 
ager of  a  zarzuela  company  which  was  most  unsuc- 
cessful. To  recoup  his  losses  he  began  another 
concert  tour.  In  1883  he  married  Rosina  Jor- 
dana,  who  bore  him  two  daughters  and  a  son.  In 
1884  he  was  made  "court  pianist."  After  his 
marriage  he  had  hoped  to  settle  down  in  Barcelona 
but  money  troubles  drove  him  forth  again  on  an- 
other inevitable  concert  tour.  This  persistent 
crying  need  of  money  seems  to  have  harassed  Al- 
beniz like  the  sting  of  a  whip.  At  one  time  he 
actually  carried  a  piece  of  music  every  day  to  a 
Madrid  publisher,  from  whom  he  received  enough 
silver  in  return  to  pay  for  the  day's  meals.  It 
may  be  judged  whether  or  not  this  had  any  effect 
on  the  quality  of  his  early  work.  Yet  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  reverse  side  of  the  medal  informs  us 
that  this  was  the  very  incentive  needed  to  keep  his 
music  from  being  precious.  And  so,  even  at  the 
last,  he  was  able  to  breathe  great  spontaneity  and 
freshness  into  his  Iberia,  which  gives  no  external 
evidence  of  calculation  and  studied  effect.  .  .  . 
[105] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


He  again  returned  to  Spain  and  now  lived  in 
Madrid  until  1889  when  he  made  a  concert  tour  of 
Germany,  Holland,  and  Scotland,  and  finally  went 
to  London  where  he  was  heard  at  Lady  Morell 
Mackenzie's.  He  played  on  this  occasion  Schu- 
bert's Impromptu  in  E  flat  and  several  pieces 
of  his  own  and  made  such  a  success  that  he 
soon  afterward  gave  a  public  concert  at  Albert 
Hall.^ 

London  now  claimed  him  for  several  years  but 
did  not  put  his  genius  to  any  good  use.  Owing  to 
the  success  which  greeted  the  incidental  music  he 
had  composed  for  a  play  by  Armande  Sylvestre  he 
was  commissioned  to  write  the  music  for  ail  op- 
eretta called  The  Magic  Opal,  performed  at  the 
Lyric  Theatre,  January  19,  1893  (Madrid,  1894), 
and  later  at  the  Prince  of  Wales.  It  was  in  this 
same  year  that  he  decided  to  forsake  the  career  of 
virtuoso  for  that  of  composer  and  he  gave  his  last 
piano  recital  in  Berlin  in  1893.  Following  the 
production  of  The  Magic  Opal  he  was  engaged  as 
composer  in  ordinary  and  conductor  at  the  Prince 
of  Wales  Theatre.  It  was  probably  during  this 
time  that  his  health  became  seriously  undermined 
as  he  certainly  overworked  himself,  often  finding 

1  Buffen  says  it  was  Princes'  Hall,  and  he  gives  the  date 
as  June  12,  1889. 

[106] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


it  necessary  to  compose  at  the  theatre  where  copy- 
ists seized  the  sheets  as  they  fell  from  his  hands. 
He  wrote  and  produced  three  more  operas,  Enrico 
Clifford  (produced  in  Italian  at  the  Liceo  at  Bar- 
celona, May  8,  1895),  Antonio  de  la  Florida 
(Madrid,  October  26,  1894;  produced  in  Brussels 
as  VErmitage  fleuriey  1904*),  and  Pepita  Jimenez 
(Barcelona,  January  5,  1896).  Before  his  death 
he  worked  on  a  Kvng  Arthur  trilogy ;  the  first  part, 
Merlin,  he  completed  and  it  has,  I  think,  been  pub- 
lished. I  am  uncertain  as  to  the  state  in  which  he 
left  Lancelot  and  Ginevra,  Up  to  a  compara- 
tively recent  date  this  work,  in  whole  or  in  part, 
had  not  been  given  on  the  stage. 

It  was  in  th€  early  nineties  that  Albeniz  went  to 
Paris  to  study  and  there  he  found  the  inspiration 
he  needed  to  guide  him  through  the  mazes  of  his 
future  masterpieces.  Mr.  Jean-Aubry  tells  us 
how  fertile  the  ground  was :  "  It  was  but  three 
years  before,  in  Paris,  that  Franck  had  died,  and 
more  recently,  Lalo,  in  1892,  while  poor  Chabrier, 
in  1894?,  stricken  with  illness  and  almost  uncon- 
scious at  the  first  performance  of  Gwendolkie,  was 
shortly  afterwards  also  to  die.  But  in  1893  Faure 
had  just  completed  La  Bonne  Chanson;  the  first 
eight  songs  by  Duparc  were  shortly  to  be  pub- 
lished; d'Indy  was  writing  Fervaal;  Chausson  had 
[107] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


finished  his  symphony  and  was  working  on  the 
quartet  and  the  Poeme  for  violin  and  orchestra; 
Charpentier  had  recently  published  his  Impressions 
d'ltalie;  Debussy  had  had  his  quartet  performed 
and  had  begun  Pelleas  et  Melisande;  and  Bordes 
had  founded  in  189^  the  Chanteurs  de  Saint  Ger- 
vais  and  with  Vincent  d'Indy  laid  the  foundation 
for  the  Schola  Cantorum.  Is  there  in  the  history 
of  French  music  a  period  richer  in  fulfilment  and  in 
promise?  "  From  this  time  on,  indeed,  Albeniz 
walked  among  the  great.  His  finest  work  for  or- 
chestra, Catalonia^  was  written  in  1898  and  per- 
formed by  the  Societe  Nationale  in  Paris,  May  27, 
1899.  In  January,  1900,  it  was  played  by  the 
Colonne  Orchestra. 

But  overwork,  worry,  the  strain  of  a  crowded 
career  had  told  on  him.  In  1900  he  fell  ill.  He 
returned  to  Spain  where  his  health  improved  and 
he  now  began  to  work  slowly  on  his  King  Arthur, 
but  found  he  could  not  overtax  his  failing  strength. 
As  he  became  worse  he  was  taken  to  Nice  and  it 
was  there,  ill  himself,  his  wife  also  ill,  his  daughter 
at  the  point  of  death,  that  he  wrote  the  book 
for  pianoforte  which  bears  the  proud  title,  Iberia, 
a  book  of  memories  of  his  beloved  Spain.  He 
lived  to  complete  this  work  and,  indeed,  almost 
finished  two  more  pieces,  but  he  never  regained  his 
[108] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


strength  and  he  died  at  Cambo,  on  the  Franco- 
Spanish  border  May  25,  1909. 

G.  Jean-Aubry  knew  the  man  and  gives  us  his 
portrait :  "  He  who  met  Albeniz,  were  it  but  once, 
would  remember  him  to  his  dying  day.  At  first 
his  effusiveness  could  surprise,  yes  even  displease, 
but  soon  one  felt  that  a  living  fire  inspired  all  his 
gestures,  and  that  the  great  soul  of  the  man 
dominated  his  outward  frame ;  and  to  astonishment 
would  succeed  an  affection  which  nothing  could 
alter.  I  do  not  think  it  possible  for  any  other 
personality  to  show  such  singular  harmony  be- 
tween head  and  heart.  His  eager  intelligence 
never  outran  his  feverish  love  of  life  and  things. 
On  each  one  of  the  few  —  far  too  few  —  occasions 
I  saw  him  he  revealed  to  me  some  phase  of  person- 
ality that  endeared  him  to  me.  He  was  one  of  the 
first  to  give  me  an  estimate  of  the  young  Spanish 
school,  and  in  what  glowing  terms  he  spoke  of  the 
love  he  bore  the  musicians  of  France. 

"  The  kindness  and  the  generosity  of  the  man 
were  unsurpassable;  I  could  give  a  thousand 
proofs.  He  was  sensitive  without  wishing  it  to 
appear,  and  the  goodness  of  his  heart  was  a  thing 
of  much  charm.  He  was  unstinting  in  his  praise 
of  others ;  his  talk  was  always  of  friendship,  affec- 
tion, or  joy.  I  never  saw  him  otherwise.  He 
[109] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


steeped  himself  in  music  as  the  source  of  all 
strength,  but  nothing  in  life  itself  escaped  him,  and 
behind  his  joyous  exterior  vibrated  a  heart  re- 
sponsive to  the  least  modulation  of  the  soul.  We 
find  it  in  all  his  work.  What  man  can  take  the 
place  of  this  marvellous  fount  of  vitality;  as  for 
myself,  I  have  never  known  in  another  such  joy  at 
being  happy.  Even  at  the  gates  of  death  he  re- 
tained this  joyous  boyishness.  In  Brussels  I 
heard  tales  of  a  thousand  pleasant  adventures  of 
which  he  was  the  soul;  jests,  planned  with  much 
skill,  which  the  grave  Gevaert  himself  did  not 
escape.  He  enjoyed  himself  with  juvenile  gaiety, 
and  the  victims  of  his  jests  only  loved  him  the 
more  for  them.  One  would  have  forgiven  him  any- 
thing, for  one  was  always  his  debtor. 

"  It  was  wonderful  to  see  Albeniz  at  the  piano- 
forte, playing  his  own  pieces  in  the  last  years  of  his 
life.  The  virtuoso  of  former  days  had  lost  his 
cunning,  his  fingers  were  not  equal  to  the  difficul- 
ties, and  we  were  given  the  spectacle  of  Albeniz 
singing,  stamping  with  his  foot,  talking,  making 
up  with  looks  and  laughter  the  notes  his  fingers 
could  not  play.  Dear  Albeniz!  what  perform- 
ances of  Iberia  will  ever  have  for  us  the  charm  of 
these,  when  all  your  poet's  soul  passed  into  those 
chords,  that  singing,  that  laughter !  " 
[110] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


III 


As  a  composer  Albeniz  was  very  prolific;  he 
was,  by  the  way,  an  excellent  improviser  and  it  is 
said  that  Liszt  took  an  especial  enjoyment  in  this 
form  of  his  talent.  No  complete,  or  even  semi- 
complete,  catalogue  of  his  music  has  yet  been 
made.  It  may,  however,  be  stated,  with  compara- 
tive safety,  that  he  wrote  altogether  between  five 
and  six  hundred  pieces;  perhaps  two  hundred  of 
these  are  temporarily  lost.  They  were  published 
everywhere,  Spain,  Germany  (Breitkopf  and  Har- 
tel),  England,  France,  even  America.  Probably 
the  greater  number  were  published  by  the  Casa 
Dotesio  at  Barcelona  and  Diaz  at  San  Sebastian. 

It  has  become  the  fashion  for  musical  diction- 
aries, casual  essayists,  and  even  concert  pianists, 
to  speak  slightingly  of  his  youthful  work,  but  it  is 
possible,  indeed,  probable  that  this  perhaps  super- 
ficial opinion  will  soon  be  reversed.  Jean-Aubry 
says,  "  I  do  not  like  the  opinion  of  those  who  set 
too  little  store  by  this  early  output  in  order  to 
esteem  only  the  latter.  In  the  middle  of  the  music 
in  his  first  manner  will  appear  suddenly  in  many 
places  an  unexpected  intonation  in  the  turning  of 
a  facile  phrase.     One  is  conscious  not  so  much  of 

[111] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


hasty  workmanship  as  of  too  great  a  facility ;  but 
in  all  that  he  produced,  what  joy  of  life,  and  still 
more  what  voluptuous  beauty  1 "  Marliave,  for 
whom  the  composer  in  his  last  days  at  Nice  played 
as  many  of  these  early  pieces  as  he  could  recall, 
found  many  of  them  very  beautiful.  "  Everything 
is  interesting,"  he  writes.  "  These  are  impres- 
sions hastily  sketched  on  paper,  short  sketches 
produced  instinctively,  assuredly  more  valuable  as 
invention  than  as  finished  work,  but  which  denote  a 
marvellous  facility  and  at  the  same  time  a  most 
subtle  and  most  musical  sentiment."  And  here  is 
Ernest  Newman's  dictum,  "  Most  of  his  minor 
piano  pieces,  I  should  think,  were  the  potboilers  of 
a  man  who,  even  when  he  was  writing  a  potboiler, 
could  not  forget  that  he  was  an  artist." 

Nature  awoke  artistic  sensations  in  Albeniz. 
Spain  and  its  landscapes  were  an  inexhaustible 
source  of  inspiration  to  him.  More  than  half  his 
pieces  bear  the  name  of  some  village  or  region, 
pieces  composed  from  day  to  day  and  dedicated 
to  the  town  he  was  playing  in.  Often,  it  is  true, 
the  insufficience,  even  the  absence  of  art,  makes 
itself  felt.  The  sentiment  of  these  pieces,  too, 
is  frankly  popular,  but  the  themes  are  per- 
sonal to  the  composer.  At  times,  however,  he  has 
[112] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


so  breathed  the  spirit  of  a  region  into  his  music 
that  it  has  vied  in  popularity  with  the  folk-songs 
of  the  place.  Spaniards,  indeed,  usually  prefer 
this  early  music  to  the  Iberia,  which  they  assert,  is 
more  French  than  Spanish.  Ernest  Newman,  who 
scoffs  at  the  theory  of  nationalism  in  music,  offers 
Albeniz's  operas  in  evidence  to  prove  that  he  was 
not  a  nationalist  composer.  But  his  operas  have 
never  been  successful  on  the  stage.  Assuredly  his 
piano  music  is  nationalistic  in  the  best  sense,  as  the 
titles  themselves  will  plainly  show  was  his  inten- 
tion. But,  of  course,  Albeniz  owes  something  of 
his  form  to  the  modern  Frenchmen  and  Russians. 
The  list  of  these  early  pieces  is  formidable  in  its 
length.  Perhaps  the  two  most  popular  numbers 
are  an  Orientale  and  the  Serenade  Espagnole, 
Marliave  describes  the  latter  as  possessing  "  mar- 
vellous local  colour."  Albeniz,  himself,  preferred 
his  Seis  pequenos  valses  de  salon.  The  Tango  in 
D  is  striking,  and  crosses  some  pretty  stiles,  de- 
spite its  brevity.  The  Spanish  Suite  embraces  im- 
pressions of  Cuba,  Granada,  Seville,  Cadiz,  As- 
turia,  Aragon,  Castile,  and  Catalonia.  Another 
suite  of  "  characteristic  pieces "  includes  Ga- 
votte, Minuet  to  a  Silvya,  Barcarola,  Plegaria, 
Conchita,  PUar,  Zamhra,  Pavana,  Polonesa,  Ma- 
[113] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


zurka.  Staccato,  and  Torre  Bermeja.  There  are 
at  least  five  sonatas.^  There  is  a  book  called  Sou- 
venirs de  Voyage  which  includes  En  el  jnar,  Ley- 
enda,  Alborada,  En  la  Alhamhra,  Puerta  de 
Tierra,  Rumores  de  la  Caleta,  and  En  la  Playa. 
There  are  other  dances,  Jot  a  Aragonesa,  Bolero 
(Andalusia),  SevillaTias,  etc.  There  are  other 
pictures  of  places,  Cordoba,  Burgos,  Mallorca,  etc. 
There  is  a  Spanish  Rhapsody  for  two  pianos,  and 
two  concertos,  one  a  Concerto  Fantdstico.  There 
is  a  Zambra-Granadina,  in  which  Marliave  asserts 
one  can  hear  the  "  tuning  of  guitars  under  an  ori- 
ental breeze." 

The  songs  are  not  numerous,  nor  are  they  very 
well  known.  I  have  never  seen  nor  heard  any  of 
them.  Nevertheless  he  composed  several  to 
French,  English,  and  Catalan  words.  Francis 
Money-Coutts  supplied  the  verses  for  some  of 
these ;  there  is  a  book  of  Rimas,  by  Becquer,  and 
at  least  one  of  the  songs  is  by  Pierre  Loti. 

All  his  ideas,  Marliave  tells  us,  were  thought 
for  the  piano.  That  explains  the  relative  weak- 
ness of  his  orchestral  music.  But  the  same  gen- 
eral statement  might  be  made  of  Chopin  and  Schu- 
mann; still  one  continues  to  hear  the  Chopin  con- 
certos  and   the   Schumann   symphonies.     Albeniz 

1  Buffen  says  there  are  twelve. 
[114] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


was  not  ignorant  of  his  comparative  weakness  in 
this  direction.  For  the  Spanish  Rhapsody  men- 
tioned above,  for  example,  he  wrote  only  an  accom- 
paniment for  second  piano,  although  he  had  orig- 
inally planned  the  work  for  piano  and  orchestra. 
The  second  piano  part,  however,  was  orchestrated 
in  1911  by  Enesco.  BufFen  mentions  a  symphony 
in  A  and  Espasa  lists  under  orchestral  works,  a 
Suite,  ScherzOy  Serenata  morisca  y  capricho  cu- 
hana.  Catalonia  may  be  regarded  as  his  one  fine 
work  for  orchestra.  Marliave  says  it  is  as  good 
as  Chabrier's  Espafia.  Praise  could  go  no 
farther.  It  has  been  performed  in  Paris  and  Lon- 
don, but  although  I  have  been  shrieking  for  its 
New  York  performance  for  a  number  of  years  con- 
ductors remain  deaf  to  its  and  my  blandishments. 
None  of  Albeniz's  orchestral  music  has  been  per- 
formed in  New  York  as  yet,  so  far  as  I  am  aware. 
.  .  .  Chamber  music  was  assuredly  not  Albeniz's 
forte ;  his  only  published  effort  in  this  direction  is 
the  Trio  in  F  for  violin,  'cello,  and  piano.  Al- 
beniz could  not  bear  even  the  mention  of  this  work. 
His  inspiration  forsook  him  when  he  tampered 
with  classical  or  academic  forms.  ...  I  cannot 
find  any  enthusiasm  expressed  for  his  oratorio,  El 
Cristo. 

His  operas,  however,  have  adherents,  one  no  less 
[115] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


a  personage  than  the  vivid  Ernest  Newman. 
The  Magic  Opal  and  San  Antonio  de  la  Florida 
have  as  jet  found  no  distinguished  friends.  En- 
rico Clifford,  a  conventional  work,  a  melodramatic 
episode  from  the  wars  of  the  roses,  sung  and  pub- 
lished in  Italian,  was,  I  believe,  a  complete  failure. 
Pepita  Jimenez  was  his  first  success  in  the  operatic 
line  and  it  was  the  last  opera  of  his  to  be  pro- 
duced. Edmund  Gosse  says  of  Valera's  novel,  on 
which  the  work  is  founded,  "  This  book  still  re- 
mains, after  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  after  the 
large  development  of  fiction  in  Spain,  the  princi- 
pal, the  typical  Spanish  novel  of  our  day.  .  .  . 
*  Pepita  Jimenez  '  is  Spain  itself  in  a  microcosm  — 
Spain  with  its  fervour,  its  sensual  piety,  its  rheto- 
ric and  hyperbole,  its  superficial  passion,  its  mys- 
ticism, its  graceful  extravagance.  The  story  may 
be  summarized  as  that  of  a  theological  student, 
full  of  ancient  Catholic  fervour,  training  to  be  a 
missionary,  delivered,  all  unarmed,  to  the  wiles  of  a 
young,  innocent,  and  beautiful  woman."  The 
conflict  is  not  alone  between  religion  and  passion, 
for  Don  Luis's  father  is  also  a  suitor  for  the  young 
widow's  hand,  and  father  and  son  are  therefore 
rivals.  Hermann  Klein,  who  heard  the  first  per- 
formance, finds  this  opera  delightful,  bubbling 
over  with  charming  music,  which  he  admits,  how- 
[116] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


ever,  is  not  particularly  Spanish.  Is  not  this  per- 
haps the  principal  reason  for  the  neglect  of  Albe- 
niz's  operas,  that  they  lack  provincial  colour,  the 
colour  he  lavished  so  bountifully  on  his  piano 
music?  Pepita,  however,  has  been  produced  in 
Prague,  Karlsruhe,  Leipsic,  Brussels,  and  prob- 
ably elsewhere. 

Another  very  good  reason  for  the  comparative 
failure  of  these  operas  is  the  nature  of  the 
librettos  prepared  for  him  by  Francis  B.  Money- 
Coutts  (now  Lord  Latymer).  These  (and  I  in- 
clude the  King  Arthur)  are  very  wretched  af- 
fairs, the  equal,  it  would  seem,  of  some  of  our 
American  efforts  in  that  line.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  discuss  this  point  at  length;  I  simply  offer  in 
evidence  a  sample  (I  copied  the  first  page  that 
flipped  open  from  the  published  text  of  Pepita  in 
Breitkopf  and  Hartel's  piano  score)  : 

"  All  is  ready !     All  is  ready ! 
All  is  weariness ! 

Waiting  the  steady  stirring  of  cheeriness ! 
Love  with  his  madness 
Turns  all  to  sadness  !  " 

In  September,  1917,  Nivian's  Dance  from  Mer- 
lin was  played  at  a  Queen's  Hall  Promenade  Con- 
cert in  London  and  moved  Ernest  Newman  to  the 
[117] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


following  outburst :  "  The  music  is  ...  no  more 
*  Spanish,'  no  more  a  '  mirror  of  nationality  '  than 
if  it  had  been  written  by  an  Englishman,  a  French- 
man, or  a  Choctaw;  it  is  simply  music,  and  very 
good  music  —  the  finest  on  the  whole  that  Albeniz 
ever  wrote.  ...  I  warmly  recommend  the  score  to 
any  one  who  is  on  the  look-out  for  something  at 
once  original,  strong,  and  beautiful,  and  who  can 
chuckle  with  me  over  the  fact  that  the  best  opera 
on  our  sacrosanct  British  legend  has  been  written 
by  a  Spaniard." 

Marliave  does  not  share  Newman's  enthusiasm 
for  this  work.  He  considers  the  Ki/ng  Arthur  a 
mistake  in  judgment:  "a  Wagnerian  libretto  in 
situation,  sentiment,  and  characters,  the  last  thing 
to  propose  to  his  inspiration.  The  concentrated 
psychic  force  that  such  a  work  demanded  was  not 
in  him ;  as  a  consequence  he  lost  his  own  personal- 
ity in  that  of  the  German  colossus." 

Albeniz  seems  to  have  been  at  work  on  this 
trilogy  from  1897  to  1906.  His  other  operas  are 
crowded  into  a  few  years  in  the  early  nineties. 
Aside  from  these  he  wrote  several  zarzuelas,  just 
how  many  it  is  hard  to  determine.  I  doubt  if  they 
all  have  been  published.  Espasa  gives  the  names 
of  three,  Cuanto  mas  viejo,  Catalanes  de  Gracia, 
and  El  Canto  de  Salvacion. 
[118] 


I saac   Albeniz 


Whatever  private  opinions  may  be  held  regard- 
ing the  ultimate  value  of  his  operas,  the  fact  re- 
mains that  none  of  them  has  held  the  stage.  The 
King  Arthur  trilogy  has  not  even  been  produced. 
And  neither  his  operas,  his  early  piano  music 
(which,  however,  must  not  be  unappreciated  on 
this  account),  his  songs,  nor  his  orchestral  music 
would  give  him  a  very  high  place  in  the  history  of 
music.  That  he  achieved  that  place  before  he  died 
is  due  to  Iheria. 

Marliave  says  that  Vega  (from  the  Alhamhra 
Suite)  belongs  to  his  transition  period;  it  is  con- 
nected with  his  past  and  yet  it  foreshadows  his 
future.  This  is  a  long  poetic  nocturne  in  which 
he  evoked  the  spirit  of  the  plain  of  Granada,  lying 
tranquil  under  the  high  stars,  sleeping  to  the  mur- 
mur of  brooks  and  to  the  soft  sweep  of  the  breeze 
over  the  gardens  and  groves  of  blooming  orange 
trees. 

Albeniz  began  Iheria  in  1905.  It  is  published 
in  four  books  by  the  "  Edition  mutuelle  "  in  Paris. 
The  contents  are :  Book  I,  Evocation,  El  Puerto, 
Fete-Dieu  a  Seville;  Book  II,  Rondena,  Almeria, 
Triana;  Book  III,  El  Albaicin,  El  Polo,  Lavapies; 
Book  IV,  Malaga,  Jerez,  Eritana.  These  pieces, 
without  exception,  are  all  masterpieces  of  piano- 
forte literature.  More,  they  are  the  comer  stone, 
[119] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


the  Koran,  of  the  modem  Spanish  school.  They 
are  the  dances  and  songs,  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
the  peninsula,  translated  with  peculiar  felicity  into 
the  language  of  the  piano  which  Albeniz  has  even 
successfully  extended  for  his  purposes.  In 
rhythm,  in  emotion,  in  harmony,  in  themal  con- 
tent, and  in  their  polyphonic  complexity  (which 
sounds  simple  when  well  played  as  all  good  music 
should),  they  are  almost  unique.  They  far 
transcend  in  importance  any  other  modem  works 
for  the  piano.  Indeed  they  place  Albeniz  in  very 
blessed  company,  with  Beethoven,  Chopin,  and 
Schumann. 

Havelock  Ellis  says  in  "  The  Soul  of  Spain," 
"  It  has  been  said  that  a  Spaniard  resembles  the 
child  of  a  European  father  by  an  Abyssinian 
mother."  There  is  certainly  a  wild  African  strain 
in  Albeniz's  European  music.  Marliave  detects 
therein  the  two  essences  of  Iberian  music,  one 
vigorous,  hardy,  passionate,  the  jota,  the  other 
dreamy,  sensual,  languid,  the  malaguena.  "  You 
cannot  walk  through  a  little  town  in  the  south  of 
Spain  without  hearing  a  strange  sound,  between 
crying  and  chanting,  which  wanders  out  to  you 
from  behind  barred  windows  and  from  among  the 
tinkling  bells  of  the  mules,"  writes  Arthur  Symons 
in  "  Cities  and  Sea-Coasts  and  Islands."  "  The 
[120] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


Malaguena,  they  call  this  kind  of  singing;  but  it 
has  no  more  to  do  with  Malaga  than  the  mosque  at 
Cordova  has  to  do  with  the  soil  on  which  it  stands. 
It  is  as  Eastern  as  the  music  of  tom-toms  and 
gongs,  and,  like  Eastern  music,  it  is  music  before 
rhythm,  music  which  comes  down  to  us  untouched 
by  the  invention  of  the  modern  scale,  from  an  an- 
tiquity out  of  which  plain-chant  is  a  first  step 
towards  modem  harmony.  And  this  Moorish 
music  is,  like  Moorish  architecture,  an  arabesque. 
It  avoids  definite  form  just  as  the  lines  in  stone 
avoid  definite  form,  it  has  the  same  endlessness, 
motion  without  beginning  or  end,  turning  upon 
itself  in  a  kind  of  infinitely  varied  monotony.  The 
fioriture  of  the  voice  are  like  those  coils  which 
often  spring  from  a  central  point  of  ornament,  to 
twist  outward,  as  in  a  particular  piece  of  very  del- 
icate work  in  the  first  mihrab  in  the  mosque  at  Cor- 
dova. .  .  .  The  passion  of  this  music  is  like  no 
other  passion;  fierce,  immoderate,  sustained,  it  is 
like  the  crying  of  a  wild  beast  in  suffering,  and  it 
thrills  one  precisely  because  it  seems  to  be  so  far 
from  humanity,  so  inexplicable,  so  deeply  rooted  in 
the  animal  of  which  we  are  but  one  species." 

The  Evocation  as  the  name  implies,  gives  us  the 
mood ;    "  bright   burning  daylight   beating   down 
upon  the  rows  of  white  houses,  a  blaze  of  heat  over 
[121] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


it  all ;  then  in  the  evening  the  fragrance  of  orange 
blooms  arises  from  the  gardens  and  the  thrum  of 
merriment  is  heard  in  the  streets  through  long  and 
sleepless  nights  " ;  ^  citron  trees,  myrtle  hedges, 
rows  of  acacias,  tamarisks  and  pomegranites ;  vega 
and  sierra;  we  peep  through  the  iron  bars  of  a 
gate  into  a  patio;  we  inhale  the  fragrance  of  jas- 
mine blown  across  to  us  through  the  heavy  night 
air;  a  serenade  is  heard  in  the  distance,  the  faint 
tinkle  of  guitars ;  this  is  the  Spanish  Invitation  to 
the  Dance!  .  .  .  Triana:  the  gipsy  quarter  of 
Seville;  we  are  in  a  maison  de  danses;  a  gipsy  girl 
is  dancing  the  romalisy  coiling,  stamping,  now 
slowly  sensuous,  now  fast  and  fiery ;  crotals,  cym- 
bals, castanets,  tambourines  .  .  .  spangles  flash- 
ing .  .  .  stamping  heels  .  .  .  accroche-coeurs.  .  .  . 
And  a  certain  savage  dignity  reminds  us  that  Tra- 
jan was  bom  in  Triana!  ,  .  ,  El  Alhaicvn:  the 
gipsy  quarter  at  Granada;  guitars,  strumming, 
thumping  ...  an  old  gipsy  woman  sings  a  plain- 
tive melody  .  .  .  interrupted  by  the  guitars  .  .  . 
nostalgia  .  .  .  wanderlust  .  .  .  wildness  and  woe 
.  .  .  the  dirty,  gipsy  huts,  poverty,  the  life  of  the 
Bohemians  .  .  .  Rondena,  in  which  3-4  and  6—8 
time  alternate  in  the  graceful  and  peculiar  dance 
of  Ronda,  the  town  built  high  on  a  cleft  rock,  in 


iJohn  Garrett  Underbill. 


Isaac   Albeniz 


turn  invaded  by  Phoenicians,  Carthaginians,  Goths, 
Moors,  and  Christians  .  .  .  the  market  rich  in 
fruit,  grapes,  peaches,  medlars  ...  a  famous 
bull-ring  .  .  .  El  Puerto:  the  mountain  portal 
from  which  the  robber  bands  were  formerly  accus- 
tomed to  descend  and  infest  the  high  road  from 
Seville  to  Cadiz.  .  .  .  The  rhythm  runs  in  the 
quick  decisive  trot  of  mules  .  ,  .  El  Polo:  the 
sobbing  strain  of  an  old  Andalusian  song,  "  speak- 
ing directly  to  the  spine,  sending  an  unaccountable 
shiver  through  one"  .  .  .  Eritana:  an  inn  out- 
side Seville.  Can  this  be  Lillas  Pastia's?  Mar- 
liave  says  that  this  music  "  waddles,  good- 
humoured  and  joking,  like  Sancho  Panza's  donkey 
approaching  the  rack  of  a  Sevillan  inn."  And  to 
Marliave  the  culminating  point  in  the  series  is 
Jerez,  a  picture  of  the  city  of  sherry,  "  an  absolute 
masterpiece  of  pure  musical  beauty."  I  would 
find  it  difficult  to  pick  my  own  favourite.  Indeed 
it  is  usually,  as  is  the  case  with  Gilbert  and  Sulli- 
van operas,  the  latest  one  I  have  heard. 

Only  very  brilliant  pianists  need  attempt  to 
play  these  pieces.  Indeed,  to  master  their  depths 
requires  an  astonishing  technique,  for  this  tech- 
nique must  be  forgotten  by  the  auditor  in  perform- 
ance. Ernest  Newman  has  made  some  remarks  on 
this  point ;  "  Albeniz,  I  think,  sometimes  makes 
[123] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


matters  needlessly  difficult  for  the  player  by  his 
way  of  Rotating  his  music.  He  has  always  had  a 
preference  for  the  flat  keys,  particularly  those 
with  five,  six,  or  seven  flats  in  the  key  signature 
(the  bulk  of  the  pieces  in  Iberia,  for  instance,  are 
in  flats)  ;  and  not  content  with  this  he  is  for  ever 
doubling  the  flats,  or  doubling  some  and  chromat- 
ically raising  others  in  the  same  chord,  till  the 
most  skilled  reader  may  be  pardoned  for  getting 
confused  at  times,  while  the  ordinary  amateur 
becomes  hopelessly  befogged.  Albeniz  could  have 
saved  us  a  lot  of  trouble  by  writing  many  passages 
in  the  equivalent  sharp  keys.  But  setting  this 
aside,  the  difficulties  of  his  music  all  come  from 
the  nature  of  his  thinking.  His  music  is  not  self- 
consciously sophisticated,  as  that  of  so  many  of 
the  modem  Frenchmen  tends  to  be;  his  mind  was 
one  of  extraordinary  subtlety,  and  his  ideas  so  far 
removed  from  the  customary  ruts  he  had  to  find  a 
correspondingly  personal  mode  of  expression.  In 
some  respects  he  has  carried  the  idiom  of  the  piano 
further  than  any  other  composer  of  his  time;  I 
do  not  know,  for  example,  where  else  we  shall  find 
such  tremendous  resonance,  as  of  organ  and 
orchestra  combined,  as  in  the  Fete-Dieu  a  Seville, 
His  originality  is  invariably  of  the  same  kind; 
that  is  to  say,  no  matter  how  unusual  a  passage 
[124*] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


may  sound  at  first,  it  is  always  found  to  talk 
simple  sense  when  we  have  become  accustomed  to 
it.  .  .  .  Albeniz  had  the  real  logical  faculty  in 
music.  He  thinks  continually  and  coherently 
right  through  his  seemingly  complicated  har- 
monies, and  he  has  a  technique  that  enables  him  to 
say  lucidly  anything,  however  remote  from  the 
ordinary  track,  that  he  may  want  to  say.  In  the 
Lavapies,  for  instance,  he  suggests  to  perfection 
the  animation  of  the  popular  quarter  of  Madrid, 
with  all  its  clashes  of  sound  and  of  colour.  Mous- 
sorgsky  tried  to  do  a  somewhat  similar  thing  in  his 
picture  of  the  Limoges  market-place  in  his  Tab- 
leatix  d'une  Exposition;  but  he  had  nothing  like 
Albeniz's  technical  command.  The  Lavapies  is 
not  only  good  fun  and  good  description  but  good 
music.  Great  as  are  his  descriptive  powers,  how- 
ever, he  is  at  root  an  emotionalist,  an  eloquent 
evoker  of  moods." 

After  Iberia^  although  Albeniz  was  dying,  he 
contrived  to  write  two  more  pieces  for  the  piano, 
or  at  least  to  sketch  them  out.  These  pieces, 
Azvlejos  and  Navarray  he  considered  the  finest  he 
had  written  and  there  are  those  who  agree  with 
him.  The  first  was  completed  by  Granados  and 
the  second  by  Deodat  de  Severac  after  the  com- 
poser's death. 

[1«5] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


IV 


I  am  frequently  informed  that  there  are  rules  by 
which  art  can  be  measured,  justly  appraised,  or 
pigeon-holed.  I  have  frequently  expressed  doubt, 
publicly  and  privately,  that  this  is  true.  I  am  the 
more  inclined  to  doubt  by  the  so-called  serious 
books  on  the  subject.  That  they  are  serious 
books  I  would  not  attempt  to  deny ;  whether  or  not 
they  can  be  taken  seriously  is  another  matter.  In 
one  sense  such  a  book  as  Arthur  Machen's  "  Hiero- 
glyphics "  can  be  taken  seriously.  It  makes  pleas- 
ant and  stimulating  reading.  It  is  written  with 
grace.  And  yet  the  avowed  purpose  of  the  book 
seems  to  be  to  give  the  reader  a  formula  by  which 
he  can  test  works  of  art.  By  the  aid  of  this  magic 
formula  Mr.  Machen  blithely  proceeds  to  prove 
that  Jane  Austen  and  Thackeray  are  not  artists 
and  that  Dickens  is  akin  to  Homer.  By  this  same 
formula  I  could  prove  in  a  couple  of  pages  that 
Murillo  was  a  greater  painter  than  Velazquez. 
Mr.  W.  H.  Hadow  prefaces  his  valuable  "  Studies 
in  Modem  Music  "  by  a  critical  essay  in  which  he 
attempts  to  lay  down  the  rules  for  musical  crit- 
icism and  to  give  us  a  formula  by  means  of  which 
we  can  judge  and  appraise  music.  By  means  of 
[126] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


this  formula  Mr.  Hadow  proves  beyond  any  pos- 
sible shadow  of  doubt  that  Sir  Charles  Hubert 
Hastings  Parry  is  England's  musical  Messiah.^ 

With  these  examples  before  me  I  refrain  from 
any  attempt  to  make  this  composer  fit  any  artistic 
formula.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  "  impressionis- 
tic "  critic  who  expresses  his  personal  preferences 
is  much  more  likely  to  light  up  his  subject.  He  is 
not  tied  down  by  a  theory.  Now  subjects  seldom 
fit  theories  and  so  it  becomes  the  business  of  the 
formulist  to  make  them  appear  to  do  so,  as  Mr. 
Wilson  FoUett  does  in  the  case  of  James  Branch 
Cabell,  for  instance,  or  to  deride  and  poke  scorn 
at  them  for  failing  to  do  so.  "  To  try  and  ap- 
proach truth  on  one  side  after  another,  not  to 
strive  or  cry,  nor  to  persist  in  pressing  forward, 
on  any  one  side,  with  violence  and  self-will, —  it  is 
only  thus,  it  seems  to  me,  that  mortals  may  hope  to 
gain  any  vision  of  the  mysterious  Goddess,  whom 
we  shall  never  see  except  in  outline,  but  only  thus 
even  in  outline.  He  who  will  do  nothing  but  fight 
impetuously  towards  her  on  his  own,  one,  favour- 
ite, particular  line,  is  inevitably  destined  to  run 

1  "  There  has  arisen  among  us  a  Composer  who  is  capable 
of  restoring  our  national  Music  to  its  true  place  in  the  art 
of  Europe.  .  .  .  There  is  little  presumption  in  the  forecast 
when  we  already  have  such  first  fruits  as  St.  Cecilia,  and 
the  De  Profundis,  and  the  English  Symphony." 

[127] 


Isaac   Albeniz 


his  head  into  the  folds  of  the  black  robe  in  which 
she  is  wrapped."  These  lines  of  Matthew  Ar- 
nold's express  my  meaning  exactly. 

It  is  pleasant,  therefore,  to  conclude  this  paper 
on  a  note  of  mere  rhapsody.  I  have  made  some 
small  attempt  to  give  an  idea  of  Albeniz's  music, 
the  gradual  flowering  of  his  genius.  So  far  as  I 
am  concerned  he  has  brilliantly  fulfilled  an  ideal 
and  in  so  doing  has  achieved  his  niche.  Haru- 
spicy  is  no  specialty  of  mine,  but  unless  I  am  very 
much  mistaken  he  will  soon  outgrow  the  rather  un- 
important corner  into  which  he  has  been  thrust  by 
more  thriving  modernists  and  presently  be  installed 
on  a  pedestal  somewhere  nearer  the  centre  of  our 
musical  Pantheon.  And  on  this  pedestal  we  could 
do  no  better  than  inscribe  these  lines  of  Marliave : 
"  En  luiy  sensuelle  et  melancolique,  joyeuse  et  pas- 
sioneCy  agreste  et  chevaleresqiie,  Vame  de  VEspagne 
se  trowve  et  se  restume,  et  si  Vecole  iberique  existe 
aujourd'huiy  consciente  d^eUe-meTne,  vraiment  na- 
tioncde,  dehordante  de  seve  jeune  et  vivace,  c'est  au 
delicieux  genie  d^ Isaac  Albeniz  qu^elle  le  doit.*' 

AprU  4,  1919. 


[128] 


The  Holy  Jumpers 

"And  some  had  visions,  as  they  stood  on  chairs. 

And  sang  of  Jacob  and  the  golden  stairs. 

And  they  all  repented,  a  thousand  strong 

From  their  stupor  and  savagery  and  sin  and  wrong 

And  slammed  with  their  hymn  books  till  they  shook 

the  room 
With  *  glory,  glory,  glory/ 
And  'Boom,  boom,  boom.*" 

Vachel  Lindsay:     "  The  Congo." 


The  Holy  Jumpers 

An  impromsation  on  the  block  keys 


TIME  hangs  heavy  on  an  ocean  voyage; 
thinking  becomes  almost  a  necessity. 
One  can  read,  of  course,  the  books  one 
never  gets  a  chance  even  to  dip  into  elsewhere, 
"  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  or  "  Jean  Christophe." 
Surely  the  three  volume  novel  of  the  mid-Victorian 
period  was  invented  with  ocean  travellers  in  mind. 
"  Twenty  pages  more  to  make  the  book  last  from 
Liverpool  to  New  York,"  many  a  novelist  must 
have  sighed.  And  it  is  pleasant  to  remember  that 
some  of  our  novelists,  Theodore  Dreiser  and  Re- 
main Holland,  are  writing  books  today  of  a  suit- 
able length  for  the  ocean  traveller.  .  .  .  But  in 
the  end  reading  becomes  obnoxious  on  the  sea ;  the 
unsettled  monotony  of  the  waves  begs  the  voyager 
now  and  again  to  lay  down  his  book  and  he  begins 
to  think.  He  ponders  over  the  proverbial;  he 
considers  the  obvious.  No  great  problems  are 
ever  solved  at  sea;  I  am  sure  that  Tristan  und 
Isolde  was  composed  on  land ;  gunpowder  and  sew- 
ing machines  must  have  been  invented  there.  The 
sea  is  responsible  for  visual  images  of  the  stupidity 
[131] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

of  the  past  and  the  futility  of  the  future ;  it  occurs 
to  me  that  a  boat  trip  bears  a  certain  relation  to 
drowning  in  this  respect. 

On  my  way  to  the  Bahama  Islands  recently  I 
tired  in  time  of  such  literature  as  was  available 
(Francis  Grierson,  H.  G.  Wells,  and  St.  John  Er- 
vine  were  the  authors  represented)  and,  sitting  in 
my  deck  chair  alone,  watching  the  flying  fishes 
play,  I  allowed  my  mind  to  wander.  There  was 
the  slightest  swell  but  no  breeze,  a  tropical  oily 
ocean  under  me.  Dante  once  wrote  that  in  un- 
pleasant moments  our  minds  revert  to  happier  oc- 
casions. In  this  excessive  peace  it  pleased  me 
to  recall  more  exciting  hours. 

My  earliest  Christmas  tree  held  its  place  for  a 
second  in  my  retina ;  my  first  pair  of  trousers ;  a 
succession  of  fires,  for  one  of  which  I  was  respon- 
sible. On  another  occasion,  a  few  months  later  (I 
must  have  been  eleven  years  old),  my  mother 
awakened  me  in  the  hours  close  following  midnight, 
to  tell  me  that  the  stables,  in  close  proximity  to  the 
house,  were  burning.  A  look  out  of  the  window 
was  sufficient  to  arouse  me.  I  had  possessions 
which  were  dear  to  me,  chameleons  and  sundry 
copies  of  works  by  J.  T.  Trowbridge  and  Horatio 
Alger,  but  I  did  not  think  of  these.  I  made  my 
escape  from  the  house,  not  yet  on  fire,  clad  in  my 
[132] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

nightrobe,  and  two  unmated  stockings  of  my 
mother's.  In  spite  of  my  efforts  with  the  garden 
hose,  the  flames,  weary  of  the  stables,  consumed  the 
house.  .  .  .  Some  years  later  in  Paris  an  oil  stove 
exploded  in  the  office  adjoining  mine;  the  walls  and 
the  ceiling  were  built  of  glass  and  the  crackling  of 
the  panes  raped  the  blood  from  my  face.  With 
precise  care  I  grasped  a  pad  of  type-writer  paper 
and  a  derby  hat,  belonging  to  a  visitor,  and  made 
a  very  speedy  exit  into  the  street.  Once  I  have 
felt  the  cold  steel  of  a  revolver  pressed  firmly 
against  my  forehead.  I  have  capsized  in  a  sail- 
boat although  I  am  ignorant  of  the  art  of  swim- 
ming. I  have  been  run  over  by  automobiles  on 
two  occasions.  .  .  .  But,  I  thought,  it  is  perhaps 
from  art  that  I  have  received  the  most  memorable 
thrills,  and  not  always  the  best  art.  I  can  never 
hear  the  Dies  Irae  in  Verdi's  Requiem  without 
jumping  and  there  is  a  phrase  in  Cesar  Franck's 
tone-poem,  Les  Eolides,  a  caressing  sensuous 
phrase  which  I  cannot  even  remember  without 
shivering.  The  opening  bars  of  Richard  Strauss's 
Don  Juan  have  for  me  the  nerve-edging  trick  which 
is  in  the  power  of  cocaine.  I  was  certainly  thrilled 
when  I  first  heard  the/ last  measures  of  Die 
WalJciire,  music  to  which,  considering  in  my  deck 
chair,  I  found  myself  profoundly  indifferent, 
[13a] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

Wagnerddmrnerung.  There  was  a  trombone 
player  at  Coney  Island  and  there  was  Leo  Ornstein 
playing  his  Wild  Man's  Dance. 

In  recollection  this  catalogue  seemed  pitiful 
and  weak  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  very 
fortunate  that  thrills  can  be  systematized;  other- 
wise how  many  men  would  go  through  life  without 
experiencing  one !  Americans  are  easily  thrilled 
at  a  base-ball  game;  at  best  they  seek  a  prize 
fight.  For  a  Spaniard  nothing  less  than  a  bull- 
fight will  do.  An  execution  by  guillotine  will  some- 
times lift  a  Frenchman's  pulse,  but  he  will  become 
much  more  excited  over  an  argument  in  a  cafe. 
Rape  is  popular  in  the  south  of  North  America 
and,  I  believe,  in  other  localities  as  well.  This  is 
frequently  followed  by  a  resulting  sport  called 
lynching,  and  so  it  happens  that  at  least  one  man 
is  awarded  a  double  thrill.  Everywhere  there  is 
evidence  of  the  search  for  the  thrill,  by  the  masses, 
by  individuals:  revolution,  fast  motoring,  war, 
feminism,  Jew  baiting,  Alfred  Casella,  aeroplan- 
ing,  the  Russian  Ballet,  are  sign  posts  which  point 
ways  to  those  who  lack  the  ingenuity  to  invent 
personal  thrills  or  at  least  the  capacity  to  enjoy 
them. 

In  the  course  of  time,  after  what  seemed  an  in- 
terminable three  days,  we  arrived  at  Nassau,  which 
[134] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

few  people  know  is  the  capital  of  the  Bahama 
Islands.  Early  one  morning,  as  the  dawn  broke 
softly  through  the  pink  flushes  of  subtle  cloud 
banks,  we  entered  the  beautiful  bay.  The  trans- 
parent water  was  as  prismatic  as  a  black  opal; 
streaks  of  emerald,  purple,  and  the  most  vivid 
indigo  succeeded  each  other.  In  the  depths,  over 
the  clean  white  sand,  one  could  see  the  waving  sea 
garden  and  fish  of  splendid  colours;  here  a  sea 
wasp,  a  filmy  inverted  globe  ready  to  sting  the 
swimmer,  and  there  the  white  belly  of  a  hungry 
shark.  The  coast  showed  a  low  line  of  hills,  on 
which  squatted  pink  and  yellow  plaster  houses  with 
many  green  blinds ;  everywhere  the  waving  fronds 
of  palm  trees.  .  .  .  We  landed  near  the  public 
park,  which  seemed  to  be  crowded  with  Negroes, 
more  fully  clothed,  was  my  first  impression,  than 
seemed  essential  or  even  proper  in  the  tropics  and 
shaded  from  the  sun  by  spreading  straw  hats. 
There  were  few  white  men  in  the  group.  Now  the 
low  plaster  houses  shone  very  vivid  pink,  yellow, 
and  green  in  the  hot  near  sun,  in  a  very  clear 
atmosphere;  the  white  shell  roads  sparkled  like 
silver  snakes ;  the  black  natives  seemed  carved 
from  ebony. 

With  a  delightful  carelessness  Providence  has 
sprinkled  New  Providence  —  so  the  early  settlers 
[135] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

called  this  island  —  with  vegetation.  Every- 
where, in  rich  man's  garden  and  by  the  poor  Ne- 
gro's hut  alike  the  most  magnificent  trees  flourish, 
growing  rankly  out  of  the  thin  layer  of  soil  which 
clings  to  the  coral  island.  Nowhere  is  there  or- 
der; nowhere  does  there  seem  to  be  thought  of 
opportunity  (in  fact  it  is  well-nigh  impossible  to 
engage  labour  in  force,  so  prodigal  is  the  country, 
so  lacking  in  disagreeable  climatic  disturbances 
that  it  is  unnecessary  for  any  one  to  make  extra 
exertions),  but  everywhere,  one  next  the  other,  one 
sees  cocoa  palms,  date  palms,  royal  palms  (of 
which  there  is  a  stately  avenue  in  the  garden  of 
the  Hotel  Colonial),  palmettoes,  guavas  (the  jelly- 
bearing  trees),  sea-grapes,  cocoa-plums,  bread- 
fruit trees  (bearing  great  green  loaves  which  when 
boiled  taste  like  sweet  potatoes  and  not  at  all  like 
bread),  silk-cotton  trees  (of  which  the  roots  grow 
from  the  soil  five  feet  or  more  in  the  air,  assuming 
curious  shapes,  like  dragons  or  fantastic  croco- 
diles, a  new  source  of  inspiration  for  the  futurist 
sculptor),  orange  trees,  grape-fruit  trees,  royal 
poncianas  (with  their  scarlet  blooms,  long  seed 
pods,  and  leaves  of  delicate  fronds  in  many- 
shaded  greens),  alligator  pears,  bananas,  rubber 
trees,  sapadilloes,  plantains,  sugar  apples,  Span- 
ish limes,  almond  trees,  and  banyan  trees. 
[136] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

Nassau  boasts  few  industries ;  the  principal  one 
seems  to  be  sponge  diving  and  many  boats  are  con- 
secrated to  the  divers.  There  are  few  amuse- 
ments, aside  from  the  natural  ones.  The  bathing 
is  magnificent.  There  are  several  good  beaches  on 
the  island  of  New  Providence.  By  crossing  the 
harbour  one  achieves  Hog  Island,  a  narrow  strip 
separating  the  harbour  from  the  sea  precisely  as 
Venice  is  separated  from  the  Adriatic  by  the  Lido. 
The  analogy  holds  doubly  good  for  the  bathing 
on  the  ocean  side  is  nothing  short  of  heavenly. 
The  ocean  here  is  no  mighty  monster;  the  trans- 
parent water  is  always  warm  and  always  calm, 
even  in  roughish  weather,  because  of  a  bay  forma- 
tion; the  slope  of  the  beach  into  the  sea  is  grad- 
ual. Occasionally  a  sea  wasp  stings  the  swim- 
mer. In  the  deeper  sea  there  is  said  to  be  danger 
of  sharks  and  side-cutters,  although  I  have  never 
found  any  one  in  the  Bahamas  who  has  been  at- 
tacked by  a  shark.  The  naturalist  authorities 
say  that  the  shark  is  usually  meticulous  and  will 
not  approach  so  large  a  shape  as  that  of  a  man, 
if  it  is  in  motion.  Recent  acts  of  sharks  in  waters 
near  New  York,  however,  do  not  tend  to  support 
this  theory.  Fishing  is  scarcely  a  sport.  One 
may  catch  sharks  in  the  harbour.  Tropical  fish 
with  strange  names,  such  as  Passing  Jacks  and 
[1S7] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

Goggle  Eyes,  come  to  the  very  quay  edge  to  nibble 
at  the  hooks  baited  with  conch  that  small  boys 
dangle  from  short  poles,  and  one  may  see  them 
below  in  the  water,  almost  as  plainly  in  their  glit- 
tering splendour  as  later  when  they  lie,  still  moist 
and  quivering,  in  baskets  at  the  market. 

Through  the  medium  of  a  glass  bottomed  boat 
one  may  gaze  at  the  very  sea  gardens  of  the  ocean 
depths,  planted  with  brain  corals,  sponges  of  sen- 
sational size,  waving  sea  fans  of  amethyst  and 
amber,  chrysoprase  branches  of  some  strange  sea 
plant,  and  coral  caverns,  in  and  out  of  which 
strings  a  solemn  procession  of  staring,  wide-eyed 
fish,  some  with  speckled  sides  and  ruby  gills,  others 
with  garnet  and  sapphire  fins,  sad,  thoughtful, 
resplendent  fish,  in  this  glittering  garden,  gleam- 
ing in  the  colours  of  jewels,  turquoise,  aquamarine, 
jade,  chalcedony,  and  opal.  I  have  seen  the 
Gamberaia  Gardens  at  Florence  and  the  palace 
gardens  at  Hampton  Court,  the  gaily  formal  gar- 
dens at  Fontainebleau  and  the  melancholy  Luxem- 
bourg Gardens,  where  George  Moore  met  Mildred, 
but  none  of  these  has  ever  appealed  to  my  imagi- 
nation as  did  the  sea  garden  of  the  Bahamas.  It 
might  have  been  just  here  that  Sadko  met  the 
Princess  of  the  Sea  and  it  was  surely  of  this  spot 
that  Rimsky-KorsakofF  dreamed  when  he  wrote 
[138] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

the  ballet  of  the  "  petits  poissons  aiuv  ecaUles  d*or 
et  d* argent/' 

Aside  from  the  pleasures  of  the  sea,  the  stranger 
will  derive  the  greatest  amount  of  entertainment  in 
walking  through  the  streets,  past  the  sidewalk  ven- 
dors of  fruits,  the  baskets  of  yellow  and  gold  and 
green  and  orange  balls,  the  cock-sellers,  lightly 
balancing  flat  baskets  of  fowl  on  their  heads,  past 
the  charming  houses  whose  owners  are  protected 
from  the  sun  by  rows  of  shutters,  and  the  gardens 
which  abound  in  lovely  sights  and  smells,  past  the 
churches,  of  which  there  are  many,  also  set  deep 
in  fragrance  and  shadow.  Negroes  everywhere, 
all  walking  with  the  peculiar  slouch  and  talking 
with  the  peculiar  drawl  indigenous  to  the  West 
Indies.  There  are  quarters  devoted  to  them. 
Grant's  Town,  Fox  Hill,  and  Free  Town,  and 
there  you  may  see  street  after  street  of  pic- 
turesque huts,  some  of  them  thatched,  but  the 
Negroes  live  almost  anywhere  they  please  (and 
can  afi^ord  to)  in  Nassau,  keep  shop  for  everybody. 
There  are  a  few  mulattoes,  dubbed  "  Conchy 
Joes  "  because  their  colour  is  akin  to  that  of  the 
conch  shell,  but  pure  black  blood  predominates. 

The  present  governor  of  the  islands,  a  Scotch- 
man, has  not  very  long  been  an  incumbent  of  the 
office.     Each  night  as  he  dines  in  his  palace,  set  in 
[139] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

the  most  perfect  site  on  the  island,  on  the  highest 
hill,  and  very  decorative  in  all  its  aspects,  with  a 
charming  pink  wall  surrounding  it,  a  Scotch  bag- 
piper reminds  him  of  home  by  playing  Scotch  airs 
on  his  instrument,  as  he  marches  round  and  round 
the  porch.     The  first  night  I  heard  these  pipes 
my  imagination  directed  my  thoughts  towards  the 
Orient;  the  hot  calm  night,  the  palm  trees,  the 
blinded   palace,    and    the   wailing   instrument    all 
suggested  the  Far  East.     If  I  knew  the  piper's 
name  I  would  put  it  down  here  for  the  fellow  was 
assuredly  a  virtuoso.     He  was  so  advanced  in  the 
technique   of  his   art   that   he   found   pleasure   in 
winding  florid  ornament  around  the  melodies  he 
played.     He  had  blown  the  pipes,  I  was  told,  in 
the  Great  War  until  he  was  wounded ;  then  he  had 
been  sent  to  New  Providence  on  a  furlough.   .   .  . 
I  have  said  that  all  the  aspects  of  the  palace  were 
pleasing  but  I  have  forgotten  one  detail,  a  hor- 
rific statue  of  Christopher  Columbus,  directly  in 
front  of  the  main  doorway,  a  weak  attempt  at  the 
swashbuckling  and   the  picturesque.     I   know  of 
only  one  other  statue  in  Nassau,  that  of  the  young 
Victoria,  in  front  of  the  houses  of  parliament,  as 
the  modest  assembly  buildings  are  vaingloriously 
called.     I  have  seen  worse  statues  of  the  late  queen 
[140] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

in  London.  I  have  never  seen  anything  worse 
than  the  Columbus  statue  anywhere. 

In  the  evening  of  the  first  day,  beseeched  by  a 
negro  to  take  a  drive  in  one  of  the  phaetons  which 
are  the  conventional  conveyances  of  the  place,  we 
passed  through  Grant's  Town,  the  huts  of  which, 
set  in  among  amazing  banana  and  cocoanut  and 
silk  cotton  trees,  were  dimly  lighted ;  followed  long 
stretches  of  dwarf  plaster  walls,  like  the  walls  in 
Tuscany,  until  at  last  we  came  to  a  structure  built 
in  the  form  of  a  tabernacle,  the  roof  thatched 
with  cocoapalm  leaves  and  upheld  by  posts.  The 
sides  were  open.  The  ground  was  strewn  with 
dried  palm  branches.  On  a  platform  at  one  end 
of  the  building  a  preacher  exhorted  his  brethren. 
Behind  him  sat  a  group  of  elders  and  deaconesses, 
the  pillars  of  his  church,  while  below  extended  row 
after  row  of  black  faces,  lined  under  gigantic 
straw  hats.  Others  stood  outside.  Our  driver 
hesitated  and  informed  us  that  this  was  a  meeting 
of  the  evangelistic  sect  known  as  the  Holy  Jump- 
ers. We  descended  from  our  ancient  vehicle  and 
joined  the  worshippers. 

"  Youah  time  hab  come,"  the  preacher  was 
shouting.  "  You  got  to  come  to  Jesus  if  you 
wants  to  come  at  all.  He  suffered  for  you  and 
[141] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

you  got  to  suffer  for  Him !  Climb  in  de  chariot ! 
Hustle  to  de  golden  stairs!  Kick  dem  debils 
down!  Shove  'em  off!  Don't  let  none  of  'em 
come  near  me!  Don't  you  hear  Him  callin'  you 
all?     Oh  God!     Give  dese  people  to  Jesus!" 

"  Amen !  "  "  Yess'r !  "  "  Yess  r !  "  were 
shrieked  from  various  parts  of  the  tabernacle. 
The  preacher's  effects  were  varied  with  the  nicety 
of  a  Mozart  overture;  there  were  descents  into 
adagio  and  pianissimo,  rapid  crescendos  and  for- 
tissimos ;  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  the  assemblage  was 
worked  upon  and  with  the  progression  of  the  ex- 
hortation the  emotion  increased ;  the  preacher  was 
frequently  interrupted  by  shrill  distorted  cries. 

"Is  dere  a  sinner  among  you?  Let  him  stand 
forth !  If  dere's  one  widout  sin  among  you  I  don't 
know  him!  Come  brudders,  come!  The  time  of 
Jesus'  glory  is  at  hand !  " 

"  O  God,  take  a  poor  sinner !  "  wailed  a  treble 
voice. 

"  Amen  !     Amen !  " 

"  O  Jesus,  lamb !  " 

The  preacher  sat  down  and  some  one  on  the 
platform  immediately  started  the  hymn,  0,  what 
a  wonderful  life!  The  voices  all  sounded,  now  a 
contralto  dominated,  now  a  bass,  but  what  har- 
mony, what  volume  of  tone,  what  spontaneous 
[142] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

attack!  Suddenly  another  hymn  followed,  and 
in  time  another,  with  no  break,  and  finally  the 
tremendous  and  awful  Hiding  in  de  Blood  of  Jesus^ 
a  variation,  perhaps,  of  Washed  in  the  Blood  of 
the  Lamb.  And  now  the  congregation  swayed  to 
the  pronounced  rhythm ;  from  side  to  side  the  lines 
of  huge  straw  hats  swayed.  .  .  .  Back  —  and 
forth.  .  .  .  Back  —  and  forth.  ..."  Hiding  in 
the  blood  of  Je  —  sus.  .  .  ."  Back  —  and  forth. 
The  rhythm  dominated  us  all,  ruled  us,  tyrannized 
over  us.  The  very  pillars  of  the  tabernacle 
swayed.  ...  A  young  negress  rose  and  whirled 
up  the  aisle,  tossing  her  arms  in  the  air.  "  Oh 
God,  take  me ! "  she  screamed  as  she  fell  in  a  heap 
at  the  foot  of  the  platform.  There  she  lay, 
shrieking,  her  face  hideous,  her  body  contorted 
and  writhing  in  convulsive  shudders.  .  .  .  Hats 
here  and  there  jerked  quickly  out  of  rhythm. 
Moans  and  hoarse  cries.  .  .  .  The  terrible  inex- 
orable singing  went  on,  on,  on.  .  .  .  The  heads 
swayed.  .  .  .  Back  —  and  forth.  ..."  Hiding 
in  de  blood  of  Je  —  sus.  ..."  A  girl  fell  flat  on 
her  back  in  the  centre  aisle.  A  circle  of  foam 
formed  on  her  lips.  Her  teeth  were  clenched,  her 
fists  set  tight;  her  arms  and  legs  jerked  convul- 
sively. .  .  .  Another  woman,  a  deaconess  from 
the  platform,  bent  over  her.  .  .  .  "  De  Lord  am 
[143] 


The    Holy   Jumpers 

comin !  "  she  shouted.  "  Take  Him.  .  .  .  Heah 
me,  take  Him !  Take  Him !  Get  rid  youah  debils  ! 
Shake  'em  out !  Open  youah  mouff  and  receive  de 
Lford !  "  .  .  .  The  initiate  shrieked  and  struggled. 
Horrible,  inarticulate,  meaningless  sounds  issued 
from  between  her  clenched  teeth.  Foam  again 
formed  on  her  lips.  The  nerves  in  her  ankles 
seemed  to  be  raw.  .  .  .  The  congregation 
swayed.  ..."  Hiding  in  de  blood  of  Je  —  sus  !  " 
.  .  .  Back  —  and  forth.  .  .  .  Back  —  and  forth. 
..."  You  got  to  come.  .  .  .  You  won't  be  a 
wicked  sinner  no  longer.  .  .  .  Come !  Come !  Come ! 
Come!  Come!  Come  to  de  Lord!"  .  .  .  The 
deaconess  grew  confidential  .  .  .  almost  in  a 
whisper :  "  Open  youah  mouff,  an'  take  Him  in !  " 
"  Ai !  Ai !  "  shrieked  the  poor  sinner.  ..."  Hid- 
ing in  de  blood  of  Je  —  sus !  "  .  .  .  Back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth.  .  .  . 
"  Here  He  is !  He's  comin' !  He's  comin' !  " 
The  stooping  woman  herself  became  hysterical 
and  semi-epileptic;  her  eyes  rolled  with  excite- 
ment; supreme  pleasure  was  in  her  voice.  The 
crisis  approached.  It  seemed  as  if  the  girl  lying 
prone  was  in  a  frenzy  of  delight.  Every  muscle 
twitched;  her  nerves  were  exposed;  her  fists 
clenched  and  unclenched.  Uncontrollable  and 
strange  cries,  unformed  words  struggled  from  her 
[14f4f] 


The   Holy   Jumpers 

lips  .  .  .  and  then  at  last  a  dull  moaning,  and  she 
lay  still. 

The  swaying  continued;  others  jumped  to  the 
Lord;  others  exhorted;  there  were  more  convul- 
sions, more  frenzies;  the  scene  became  indescrib- 
ably wild,  like  a  monstrous  witches'  sabbath ; 
how  closely  the  ecstasy  of  a  Negro's  sanctity  ap- 
proaches sorcery !  Would  Huysmans  have  al- 
tered his  famous  description  of  the  Black  Mass  if 
he  had  seen  the  Holy  Jumpers?  According  to 
Remy  de  Gourmant  the  Frenchman  would  have 
welcomed  such  first  hand  experience.  "  Le  messe 
noire  est  purement  imaginaire,^'  writes  the  French 
critic  in  the  third  series  of  "  Promenades  Lit- 
teraires."  "  C'est  moi  qui  cherchai  les  details  swr 
cette  ceremonie  fantastique.  Je  rCen  trowvai  pas, 
car  U  ri'y  en  a  pas.  Finalement,  Huysmans  ar- 
rangea  en  messe  noire  la  celebre  scene  de  conjura- 
tion contre  La  Valli^re  pour  laquelle  Montespan 
avait  prete  son  corps  aux  ohscenes  simagrees  d'vm 
sorcier  infamy." 

Next  day  at  breakfast  black  Priscilla  at  the 
hotel  gave  her  view. 

"  I'se  a  Baptist,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  hold  no 
stock  in  dem  jumpers.  De  females  jump  an'  de 
males  jump  after  'em." 

September  23,  1915, 

[145] 


On  the  Relative  Difficulties  of  De- 
picting Heaven  and   Hell 
in  Music 

"  While  angels  syncopate  with  brusque  disdain 
Their  hemidemisemipsalmody 
Four  demons  paint  a  fugal  hurricane 
Against  a  dusty  fresco  calidly.'* 

Donald  Evans :  "  Ricanio  in  Cairo/* 


On  the  Relative  Difficulties 

of  Depicting  Heaven  and 

Hell  in  Music 


BEGINNING  with  the  eighteenth  century 
and  extending  down  through  our  own  time 
heaven  and  hell  have  exerted  a  powerful 
sway  over  the  imagination  of  the  musician.  It 
would  seem,  indeed,  that  the  most  abstract  of  the 
arts  could  express  to  us  more  satisfactorily  than 
poetry,  painting,  or  sculpture  the  symbolism  in- 
herent in  the  names  of  these  post-death  kingdoms. 
Heaven  suggests  goodness,  nobility,  sublimity, 
glory,  simple  faith,  aspiration,  charity,  brotherly 
love,  and,  in  the  minds  of  composers,  perhaps  be- 
cause of  the  mistranslation  of  the  names  of  obscure 
Hebrew  instruments  of  which  we  have  no  pictorial 
conception,  these  qualities  are  best  expressed  con- 
cretely by  means  of  harps  and  trumpets.  Hell, 
on  the  other  hand,  which  suggests  vice,  ugliness, 
deceit,  and  defeat,  is  generally  associated  with 
snarling  bassoons  and  rattling  drums.  Curiously 
enough,  although  there  can  be  nothing  inherently 
wicked  about  music,  it  is  often  with  hell  rather 
than  heaven  that  composers  have  achieved  their 
[149] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

best  effects;  and  the  noblest  music  is  not  specifi- 
cally concerned  with  paradise.  The  symphony  in 
C  minor,  of  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  name  the 
composer,  Schubert's  symphony  in  C  major, 
which  has  only  been  associated  with  heaven 
through  Schumann's  adjectival  comment,  Or  sai 
chi  Vonore^  and  the  final  scene  of  Die  Walkilre 
were  all  no  doubt  inspired  by  God  in  the  truest 
religious  sense,  but  the  composers  were  making 
no  attempt  to  picture  to  us  the  streets  of  pearl, 
the  mighty  chryselephantine  throne,  or  the 
winged  supernaturals  who  are  said  to  play  harps 
in  the  air.  A  real  heaven  in  opera  or  tone-poem 
is  quite  likely  to  remind  a  musician  of  the  key  of 
C  major,  the  tonic  and  the  dominant,  and  the 
diatonic  scale,  whereas  hell  and  the  devil  seem 
to  insist  on  five  or  six  sharps  or  flats,  esoteric 
scales,  and  a  daedal  disregard  for  exoteric 
rhythms.  The  conclusion  of  the  second  act  of 
Hansel  und  Gretel  furnishes  us  with  an  excellent 
typical  example  of  what  usually  happens  in  music 
when  a  real  heaven  is  turned  on.  Humperdinck 
here  is  satisfied,  with  the  aid  of  transparencies, 
coloured     lights,     and     stately-tripping    angels  ^ 

1  Mr.  Pepys's  experience  with  angel  music  in  the  theatre 
is  unique  and  should  be  recorded:  "Went  to  see  the  Vir- 
gin and  Martyr,  it  is  mighty  pleasant;  not  that  the  play 

[150] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

bearifig  gilded  palm  leaves,  to  transfigure  and 
glorify  a  tune  which  suggests  a  Protestant  Sunday 
School  and  which  dramatically  is  probably  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  Protestant  Sunday  School  ideas 
of  the  two  babes  in  the  forest.  However,  it  may 
be  said,  with  its  unimaginative  succession  of  tonic 
and  dominant  chords  and  plentiful  arpeggios,  to 
represent  one  of  the  weakest  moments  in  the  score. 
Arpeggios,  by  the  way,  are  seemingly  an  essential 
accompaniment  to  anything  heavenly.  It  is  not 
alone  Little  Eva  who  expires  to  them ;  even  Rich- 
ard Strauss  reverted  to  them  for  his  balefully 
banal  heaven  music  in  his  tone-poem.  Death  and 
Transfiguration^  an  episode  which  sends  some  of 
us  away  from  the  concert-hall  fully  determined 
never  to  do  good  in  this  world  for  fear  we  may  be 
consigned  to  listen  to  such  vapid  music  all  our 
immortal  lives.  Heaven  indeed  must  be  a  very 
dull  place  to  inspire  such  saccharine  chords  from 
the  composer  of  the  acescent  and  biting  Elektra. 
Again  in  The  Legend  of  Joseph  an  angel  steps 

is  worth  much,  but  it  is  finely  acted  by  Beck  Marshall.  But 
that  which  did  please  me  beyond  anything  in  the  whole 
world,  was  the  wind  musique  where  the  angel  comes  down; 
which  is  so  sweet  that  it  ravished  me;  and,  indeed,  in  a 
word  did  wrap  up  my  soul,  so  that  it  made  me  really  sick, 
just  as  I  have  formerly  been  when  in  love  with  my  wife, 
that  I  could  think  of  nothing  else." 

[151] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

our  way  to  a  tune  which  suggests  that  Strauss 
is  not  at  his  best  when  thinking  of  heaven.  Nor 
is  Mascagni,  who,  in  /m,  introduces  us  to  a  Jap- 
anese paradise,  via  a  lotus-flower  route,  much 
more  successful.  For  the  naive  simplicities  of 
The  Creation  ^  and  for  the  thundering  God-fearing 
music  of  The  Messiah  I  have  more  sympathy  and 
of  all  heavenly  music  I  do  not  think  better  exists 
than  the  Dance  of  the  Angels  in  Wolf-Ferrari's 
Vita  Nuova.  There  is  a  test  for  great  art,  and 
you  may  apply  this  test  equally  to  Paul  Verlaine 
or  Shakespeare,  in  that  it  treats  of  the  sublime  with 
simplicity  and  the  simple  with  sublimity.  This 
minuet,  scored  for  harps,  piano,  and  kettledrums, 
bringing  up  to  mind  a  divine  fresco  of  pre- 
Raphaelite  angels,  of  bedaisy  sprinkled  green 
fields,  of  deep  blue  skies,  of  lakes  of  still  deeper 
blue,  circled  by  ilexes  and  cypresses,  is  indeed 
celestial  in  its  simplicity,  as  poignant  a  simplicity 
as  that  of  one  of  the  poems  of  "  Sagesse."  It 
reflects  the  simple  faith  of  its  composer  and  it 
begets  faith  in  its  listeners.  There  is  gnosis  in 
this  music.     Gluck,  too,  knew  the  secret;  Gluck, 

1  Haydn  told  Griesinger,  his  biographer,  that  in  one  of 
the  oldest  of  his  symphonies  the  ruling  idea  was  how  God 
spoke  with  a  hardened  sinner,  and  begged  him  to  mend  his 
ways,  but  without  making  any  impression! 

[162] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

above  all  others,  knew  the  secret,  but  Gluck  was 
inspired  by  the  pagan  heaven  of  the  Greeks,  a 
more  beautiful  ideal  than  the  heaven  of  the  Chris- 
tians. In  all  opera  I  cannot  recall  a  more  simple, 
a  more  touchingly  serene  page  than  the  music  of 
the  scene  of  the  Elysian  Fields  in  Orfeo.  The 
first  and  unbelievably  lovely  dance  of  the  happy 
spirits  in  F  major,  "  which,"  Vernon  Lee  assures 
us  in  "  Orpheus  in  Rome,"  one  of  the  most  mood- 
compelling  of  her  essays,  "  seems,  in  its  even  flow, 
to  carry  the  soul,  upon  some  reedy,  willowy 
stream,  into  the  heart  of  the  land  of  the  happy 
dead,"  is  immediately  followed  by  an  exquisite  flute 
melody,  to  which,  if  we  are  not  disturbed  by  the 
action  on  the  stage  (and  it  is  often  well  to  cover 
one's  eyes)  we  may  imagine  the  filmiest  of  sylphs 
floating  lazily  through  the  ether.  The  song  of  the 
Happy  Shade  enhances  the  mood  and  even  the 
entrance  of  Orpheus  does  not  break  the  spell  which 
continues  to  hold  us  in  its  power  until  the  de- 
scending curtain  shuts  from  our  ears  the  divine 
chorus  which  ends  the  scene.  The  singing  of  no 
Christian  angels  can  ever  compensate  for  this 
lovely  pagan  choir.  The  scene  of  the  furies  ex- 
hibits Gluck's  talent  in  demoniacism.  How  per- 
sistently they  scamper  and  riot!  How  tremen- 
dous is  their  marmorean  and  terrible  No!  This 
[158] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

naive  but  substantial  canvas  suggests  Orcagna's 
fresco,  The  Triumph  of  Death,  in  the  Campo 
Santo  at  Pisa  much  more  definitely  than  Liszt's 
TodtentanZy  which  is  intended  as  a  musical  trans- 
mutation of  the  picture. 

In  the  music  of  Gluck  we  are  assuredly  near  the 
heart  of  true  beauty,  which,  after  all,  may  be  the 
real  God,  the  real  heavenly  kingdom.  Ideas  differ, 
however.  In  1665  Fr.  Arnoulx,  canon  of  the 
cathedral  of  Riez  in  Provence,  published  at  Rouen 
a  book,  now  very  rare,  entitled,  "  Du  paradis  et 
de  ses  merveilles,  oil  est  amplement  traicte  de  la 
felicite  etemelle  et  de  ses  joyes."  After  describ- 
ing what  can  be  seen  in  heaven  he  turns  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  ear :  "  If  the  glory  of  the  picture 
is  all  that  one  can  desire,  also  the  ear  is  charmed 
by  melodious  music,  pleasant  harmony,  gentle  mur- 
murings,  soft  and  beautiful  voices.  There  is  a 
director;  there  are  singers  and  musicians  in  abun- 
dance ;  there  are  thousands  of  millions  of  beautiful 
voices  which  sing  in  harmony,  observing  very  per- 
fectly all  the  rules  of  music.  The  director  is 
Jesus  Christ;  the  singers  are  the  angels,  the 
blessed  happy  angels.  There  are  three  bands  of 
angels  and  each  of  them  is  divided  into  three 
choirs:  the  Cherubim,  the  Seraphim,  and  the 
Thrones  sing  soprano ;  the  Dominations  and  the 
[154] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

Principalities  sing  alto;  the  Powers  and  the  Vir- 
tues sing  tenor;  the  archangels  and  the  angels  in 
the  lowest  choirs  sing  bass ;  even  the  saints  come 
to  sing  with  these.  Jesus  Christ  gives  the  key  to 
all  and  intones  the  motet,  which  is  new.  With  this 
celestial  music  and  so  many  melodious  voices  of 
different  kinds  there  is  yet,  for  the  entire  perfec- 
tion of  the  scale,  the  sound  of  the  harp,  of  the 
flute,  of  viols,  of  the  spinet,  of  the  lute,  and  all 
other  kinds  of  instruments  which  marvellously 
tickle  the  delicacy  of  our  ears." 

Music  of  hell  is  usually  associated  with  his 
kaisership  the  devil.  Once  even,  it  is  related,  on 
the  authority  of  a  composer,  the  devil  himself 
wrote  a  tune ;  this  is  Tartini's  Devil's  Trill  Sonata 
which  violinists  often  play  to  this  day.  M. 
Lalande,  in  his  "  Voyage  d'un  Fran9ois  en 
Italie  "  tells  the  story,  which  he  says  he  had  di- 
rectly from  Tartini,  and  Dr.  Burney  repeats  it. 
Michael  Kelly  informs  us,  in  memoirs  which  are 
not  entirely  to  be  relied  on  in  other  respects,  that 
Nardini,  a  pupil  of  Tartini,  assured  him  that  the 
tale  was  correct  in  every  detail.  One  night  in 
the  year  1713,  it  seems,  Tartini  dreamed  that  he 
had  made  a  contract  with  the  devil  who  promised 
to  be  at  his  service  on  all  occasions ;  indeed,  in 
the  dream  the  musician's  new  servant  anticipated 
[156] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

all  his  wishes  and  fully  satisfied  his  desires.  Ulti- 
mately the  two  became  so  familiar  that  Tartini 
presented  the  fiend  with  his  violin  in  order  to  ascer- 
tain what  kind  of  musician  he  was ;  when,  to  Tar- 
tini's  astonishment,  he  heard  him  play  an  air, 
so  beautiful  in  itself  and  performed  with  such 
taste  and  skill  that  it  surpassed  all  the  music  he 
had  ever  heard  in  his  life.  Tartini  awoke  in  a 
state  of  feverish  excitement  and  delight,  and  seized 
his  fiddle  in  the  hope  of  repeating  the  music  he 
had  just  heard,  but  the  arch  enemy  had  gone  and 
his  music  with  him!  Nevertheless  Tartini  took 
pen  and  music-paper  and  immediately  composed 
the  sonata  which  bears  the  devil's  name.  It  is 
the  best  of  Tartini's  works  but  so  far  inferior  has 
its  composer  declared  it  to  be  to  the  music  which 
he  heard  in  his  dream  that  he  said  he  would  have 
smashed  his  instrument  and  abandoned  music  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  could  he  have  subsisted  by  any 
other  means. 

It  was  thoughtful  of  the  devil  to  write  this 
sonata  in  the  style  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
What  if  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  dash  off  Leo 
Ornstein's  sonata,  opus  31?  Could  Tartini  have 
remembered  the  notes  and  put  them  down?  I 
doubt  it.  As  it  is  we  have  Tartini's  word  for  the 
fact  that  the  music  as  performed  was  infinitely 
[156] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

more  extraordinary  than  his  transcription  of  it. 
Memory  is  treacherous  at  best  and  to  remember 
a  whole  sonata,  taking  in  at  the  same  time  the 
virtuosity  of  the  devil  and  the  glamour  of  his  pres- 
ence which  must  have  shared  interest  with  his  play- 
ing, must  be  adjudged  a  remarkable  feat.  Broad, 
sweeping,  sensuous  melodies  and  rapid,  dashing 
cascades  of  notes,  to  be  played  with  devilish  aban- 
don, alternate  in  this  music.  If  Tolstoy  had  been 
more  familiar  with  musical  literature  he  would 
have  found  this  composition  more  to  his  purpose 
than  the  harmless  Kreutzer  Sonata.  In  one  sec- 
tion the  leading  notes  are  trilled;  hence  probably 
the  title.  Also  the  violinist  is  given  an  opportun- 
ity in  the  cadenza  to  trill  to  his  bow's  content. 
The  work  is  difficult  and  we  are  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  devil  must  have  been  an  excep- 
tionally fine  fiddler. 

In  1858^9  Liszt  composed  two  orchestral  para- 
phrases of  episodes  from  the  "  Faust  "  of  Nicolaus 
Lenau  and  in  the  second  of  these.  The  Dance  in 
the  Village  Tavern,  more  commonly  known  as  the 
Mephisto  Waltz,  the  devil  plays  the  violin,  while 
Faust,  in  sensuous  excitement,  waltzes  away  with 
a  black-eyed  peasant  girl.  John  Sullivan  Dwight, 
once  a  prominent  Boston  critic,  held  that  this 
music  was  "  positively  devilish,  simply  diabolical 
[157] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

...  it  shuts  out  every  ray  of  light  and  heaven, 
from  whence  music  sprang."  Perhaps  the  spirit 
of  ataraxy  is  in  the  air;  at  any  rate  today  we 
can  listen  to  this  piece  without  trembling.  When 
the  devil  played  the  fiddle,  Philip  Hale  assures  us, 
his  bowing  was  so  vigorous  that  the  dancers  kept 
on  dancing  until  they  died.  Miss  Jeannette 
d'Abadie  saw  Mrs.  Martibalsarena  dance  with  four 
frogs  at  the  same  time  at  a  Sabbat  personally 
conducted  by  Satan,  who  played  in  an  extraor- 
dinarily wild  fashion.  His  favourite  instrument 
was  the  fiddle  but  he  occasionally  performed  on 
the  bagpipe.  The  good  monk  Abraham  a  Sancta- 
Clara,  according  to  Mr.  Hale,  once  meditated  on 
the  devil's  taste  in  musical  instruments :  "  Does 
he  prefer  the  harp  ?  Surely  not,  for  it  was  by  the 
harp  that  he  was  driven  from  the  body  of  Saul. 
A  trumpet?  No,  for  the  brilliant  tones  of  the 
trumpet  have  many  times  dispersed  the  enemies  of 
the  Lord.  A  tambourine?  Ah,  no,  for  Miriam, 
the  sister  of  Aaron,  after  Pharaoh  and  his  host 
were  drowned  in  the  Red  Sea,  took  a  tambourine  in 
her  hand  and  with  all  the  women  about  her  praised 
and  thanked  God.  A  fiddle?  No,  indeed,  for 
with  a  fiddle  an  angel  rejoiced  the  heart  of  St. 
Francis.  I  do  not  wish  to  abuse  the  patience  of 
the  reader,  and  so  I  say  that  nothing  is  more 
[158] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

agreeable    to    Satan    for    accompaniment    to    the 
dance  than  the  ancient  pagan  lyre." 

Rubinstein's  orchestral  poem  Faust  seems  to 
lack  any  reference  to  the  devil,  but  in  his  opera, 
The  Demon,  which  until  recently,  at  least,  has 
remained  popular  in  Russia,  he  drew  a  full  length 
portrait  of  the  tempter.^  There  are  minor 
glimpses  of  hell  in  Der  Freischiitz  and  Robert  le 
Diable;  Massenet  in  Griselidis  turned  his  attention 
to  a  bourgeois,  boisterous,  gothic,  gargoyle  kind 
of  devil,  a  devil  with  a  wife,  which  he  limned  with 

1  Satan  is  also  a  character  in  Rubinstein's  Paradise  Lost, 
in  which  the  fiend  and  a  chorus  of  rebel  angels  are  fre- 
quently heard  to  shriek  and  howl.  The  orchestral  intro- 
duction to  part  III  paints  the  "temptation  and  the  fall." 
In  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's  The  Golden  Legend  Prince  Henry 
of  Hoheneck,  lying  sick  in  body  and  mind  in  his  castle  of 
Vautsberg  on  the  Rhine,  has  consulted  the  physicians  of 
Salerno  and  learned  that  he  can  only  be  cured  by  the  blood 
of  a  maiden  who  shall,  of  her  own  free  will,  consent  to  die 
for  his  sake.  Regarding  the  remedy  as  impossible  the 
Prince  prepares  to  die  when  he  is  visited  by  Lucifer  dis- 
guised as  a  physician.  The  demon  tempts  the  Prince  with 
alcohol,  to  which  he  yields  in  such  measure  that  ultimately 
he  is  deprived  of  place  and  power  and  driven  forth  as  an 
outcast.  Then,  of  course,  a  maiden  offers  herself  to  save 
him  and  he  is  cured.  This  happy  ending  is  foreshadowed 
in  the  prologue  in  which  Lucifer  makes  an  unsuccessful  at- 
tempt to  wreck  the  Cathedral  of  Strassbourg.  The  second 
act  of  C.  Villiers  Stanford's  dramatic  oratorio,  Eden,  is 
laid  in  hell,  and  Satan  naturally  plays  a  prominent  rdle  in 
the  ensuing  scene  which  is  devoted  to  the  fall  of  man. 

[159] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

no  little  humour.     The  most  important  air  of  this 
amusing  apparition  is  called  Loin  de  sa  femme! 
Charles   Martin   Loeffler,   the   Alsatian   composer 
who  resides  in  Boston  or  thereabouts,  has  written 
The  DevU^s  VUlanelle,  a  tone  poem  after  Maurice 
RoUinat's  "  Villanelle  du  Diable."     The  music  fol- 
lows the  verse  line  by  line,  word  by  word.     The 
two  refrains,  "  Hell's  a  burning,  burning,  burn- 
ing,"   and   "  The   Devil,   prowling,   runs    about," 
both   have   their   themes.     The   word   "  crapide " 
suggests  Aristide  Bruant's  celebrated  song,  A  la 
VUlette  (often  sung  inimitably  by  Yvette  Guil- 
bert),  to  Mr.  Loeffler  and  he  quotes  the  ditty.     To 
decorate  the  word  "  magister  "  he  involves  the  Ca 
Ira  and  La  Carmagnole  in  a  contrapuntal  fracas. 
Death  plays  the  fiddle  in  Saint-Saens's  tone-poem, 
Danse  Macabre,  while  skeletons  click  bones  and 
dance.     There  is  surely  some  devilry  in  this  busi- 
ness.    At  least  one  American  composer,  Henry 
Hadley,  has  done  his  bit  for  the  devil.     His  work 
is   a   tone-poem,  Lucifer,   after  Vondel's  five   act 
tragedy.     The  music  describes   the  war  between 
the  powers  of  darkness  and  the  powers  of  light, 
until  the  defeated  Lucifer  is  cast  down  into  chaos. 
The  Lucifer  theme  is  described  as  "  sinister,  fore- 
boding."    The  work  has  been  performed  in  New 
York  and  Boston  but  I  have  not  heard  it.     It  is 
[160] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 


principally,  however,  with  the  Faust  legend,  which 
has  intrigued  composers  for  considerably  over  a 
century,  that  musicians  have  gone  to  hell.  Many 
of  these  operas,  symphonies,  and  overtures  have 
disappeared  and  only  musical  dictionaries  and 
white-haired  gatherers  of  statistics  remind  us  that 
they  once  existed.  Even  much  of  the  incidental 
music  composed  to  be  performed  with  Goethe's 
tragedy  has  fallen  into  oblivion.  The  very  names 
of  Radziwill,  Lindpaintner,  Beaucourt,  de  Pee- 
laert,  Porphire-Desire  Hennebert,  F.  de  Roda, 
Rietz,  Henry  Rowley  Bishop,  Louise  Angelique 
Bertin,  Heinrich  Zoellner,  Lickl,  Karl  Eberwein, 
Louis  Schloesser,  Eduard  Lassen,  and  L.  Gordi- 
giani  have  faded  away.  We  do  remember  Schu- 
mann but  who  knows  his  Faust  music  maugre  Mr. 
Newman's  earnest  praise?  Spohr's  Faust y  too,  is 
forgotten,  Spohr  of  whom  W.  H.  Hadow  has  said, 
*'  His  whole  conception  of  the  art  is  soft  and  vo- 
luptuous, his  Heaven  is  a  Garden  of  Atlantis,  and 
even  his  Judgement-day  is  iridescent."  Weber 
might  have  written  a  Faust.  When  he  was  en- 
gaged to  write  an  opera  for  London  he  was  given  a 
choice  of  this  subject  or  Oheron.  He  chose  the 
latter.  Wagner's  Erne  Faust  Overture  is  not 
played  as  frequently  as  the  prelude  to  Die  Meis- 
tersinger  but  there  are  probably  few  concert- 
[161] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

goers  who  have  not  heard  it.  Felix  Weingartner's 
incidental  music  for  Goethe's  play  was  performed 
at  Weimar  in  1908.  More  recently  a  young 
Frenchwoman,  Lili  Boulanger,  who  died  before  she 
achieved  a  style,  set  a  scene  from  the  second  part 
of  Goethe's  Fawst  to  music  and  called  the 
result  a  cantata,  but  her  devil  is  bedecked  with 
Wagnerian  harmonies  and  melodies.  .  .  .  Liszt's 
Faust  Symphony  is  certainly  with  us  both  in  spirit 
and  flesh.  The  third  movement  is  devoted  to 
Mephistopheles.  Ernest  Newman  says  that  this 
"  section  is  particularly  ingenious.  It  consists, 
for  the  most  part,  of  a  kind  of  burlesque  upon  the 
subjects  of  the  Faust,  which  are  here  passed,  as 
it  were,  through  a  continuous  fire  of  irony  and 
ridicule.  This  is  a  far  more  effective  way  of 
depicting  '  the  spirit  of  denial '  than  making  him 
mouth  a  farrago  of  pantomime  bombast,  in  the 
manner  of  Boito.  The  being  who  exists,  for  the 
purposes  of  drama,  only  in  antagonism  to  Faust, 
whose  main  activity  consists  only  in  endeavouring 
to  frustrate  every  good  impulse  of  Faust's  soul,  is 
really  best  dealt  with,  in  music,  not  as  a  positive 
individuality,  but  as  the  embodiment  of  negation 
—  a  malicious,  saturnine  parody  of  all  the  good 
that  has  gone  to  the  making  of  Faust.  The 
Mephistopheles  is  not  only  a  piece  of  diabolically 
[16^] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

clever  music,  but  the  best  picture  we  have  of  a 
character  that  in  the  hands  of  the  average  mu- 
sician becomes  either  stupid,  or  vulgar,  or  both. 
As  we  listen  to  Liszt's  music,  we  feel  that  we  really 
have  the  Mephistopheles  of  Goethe's  drama." 
Mr.  Apthorp  says,  "  One  may  suspect  the  com- 
poser of  taking  Mephisto's  *  Ich  bin  der  Geist  der 
stehts  vernemt  *  for  the  motto  of  this  movement  " 
and  James  Huneker  tells  us  that  "  in  the  Mephisto- 
pheles Liszt  appears  in  his  most  characteristic 
pose  —  Abbe's  robe  tucked  up,  Pan's  hoofs  show- 
ing, and  the  air  charged  with  cynical  mockeries 
and  travesties  of  sacred  love  and  ideals  (themes 
are  topsy-turvied  a  la  Berlioz)"  .  .  . 

At  the  present  day  we  occasionally  hear  three 
Faiist  operas  and  often  two.  Boito,  after  his  pro- 
logue in  which  Mefistofele  challenges  the  heavenly 
hosts,  ventures  no  nearer  heaven  than  the  classical 
Sabbath  scene  in  which  Faust  meets  Helena  in  a  sort 
of  Italianate  duet.  To  me  this  is  the  unbearable 
episode  of  this  lyric  drama.  The  scene  in  which 
Mefistofele  twirls  the  globe  in  his  palm  while  his 
brazen  and  craven  cohorts  circle  and  chortle 
around  him  is  very  effective  but  when  Chaliapine 
appears  as  the  spirit  which  denies  it  is  a  matter 
for  doubt  whether  it  is  the  Russian  bass  or  Boito 
who  makes  the  effect.  And  certainly  Marghe- 
[163] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

rita's  death  in  prison  remains  the  best  scene  in  the 
opera.  Berlioz  in  his  "  dramatic  legend  "  is  near- 
est hell  in  the  Song  of  the  Flea,  an  excellent  piece 
of  sardonic  ribaldry,  although  the  ride,  with  its 
ghastly  accentuated  horse-hoofs  beating  up  from 
the  orchestra,  is  very  wonderful.  But  Ernest 
Newman  thinks  that  Berlioz's  devil  is  the  only  op- 
eratic Mephistopheles  that  carries  conviction. 
"  He  never,  even  for  a  moment,  suggests  the  in- 
anely grotesque  figure  of  the  pantomime.  Of 
malicious,  saturnine  devilry  there  is  plenty  in  him ; 
no  one,  except  Lfiszt,  could  compete  with  Berlioz  on 
this  ground.  But  there  is  more  than  this  in  the 
character.  In  such  scenes  as  that  on  the  banks 
of  the  Elbe,  where  he  lulls  Faust  to  sleep,  there  is  a 
real  suggestion  of  power,  of  dominion  over  ordi- 
nary things,  that  takes  Mephistopheles  out  of  the 
category  of  the  merely  theatrical  and  puts  him  in 
that  of  the  philosophical."  Marguerite's  glorifi- 
cation is  a  forgettable  passage  just  as  Gounod's 
attempt  at  the  translation  of  Marguerite  is  the 
weakest  point  in  his  score,  but  as  no  one  nowadays 
ever  ventures  to  sit  an  opera  through  it  was  per- 
haps clever  of  Gounod  to  put  his  heaven  scene  last 
so  that  only  the  ushers  and  stage-hands  might 
hear  it  before  they  extinguish  the  lights  in  the 
theatre.  Nevertheless  you  will  probably  remem- 
[164] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

ber  the  episode  with  its  white-winged  supernu- 
meraries rising  above  the  housetops  to  arpeggio 
chords  and  a  silly  chant,  not  even  the  perfumed 
sanctity  we  have  the  right  to  expect  of  a  modern 
French  composer. 

Faust,  it  seems  to  me,  of  all  conceivable  operatic 
subjects,  cries  out  for  collaborators.     It  is  unfor- 
tunate that  Cesar  Franck  is  dead  because  I  think 
that  the  Belgian  composer  and  Igor  Stravinsky 
together  might  have  evolved  something  extraordi- 
nary.    For  Cesar  Franck  came  nearer  to  express- 
ing aspiration  and  vague  longing  in  his  mystic 
music  than  perhaps  any  other  composer.     It  is  not 
alone   the   Redemption   and   the   Beatitudes   that 
shine  in  blessed  light.     The  D  minor  symphony 
is  to  me  the  finest  expression  of  simple  sublimity  to 
be  found  in  all  music.     This  haunting  reticulation 
of  tones  aspires  and  even  reaches  beyond  aspira- 
tion.    The  terrible  first  movement  warns  us  of  the 
Judgment  Day  and  then  in  melting  human  tones 
forgives   us   our   sins.     The   allegretto   is   like   a 
graceful  dance  of  angels,  the  angels  of  Benozzo 
Gozzoli,  clad  in  robes  of  mulberry  and  lilac,  sewn 
with  threads  of  gold  and  silver,  their  halos  glisten- 
ing in  a  blue  light,  itself  impregnated  with  golden 
dust,  while  the  hautboys  and  harps  ravish  our  ears 
and  the  soaring  violins  give  ample  promise  of  the 
[165] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

glory  of  the  heavenly  choirs.  Santa  Teresa  would 
have  loved  this  music,  music  mystic  and  beneficent 
at  the  same  time,  not  the  mysticism  tinged  with 
chypre  and  verveine  and  essence  of  bergamot 
which  makes  Debussy's  music  a  powerful  stimulant 
to  jaded  nerves.  Cesar  Franck  could  have  realized 
the  simple  purity  of  Marguerite  and  he  would  have 
carried  her  triumphantly,  gloriously,  magnificently 
through  vague  Gothic  arches  of  tone  which  would 
have  burst  the  boundaries  of  any  singing  theatre 
and  transported  us  perforce  to  Amiens  or 
Chartres. 

But  Papa  Franck  could  never  have  managed  the 
hell  scenes  of  Faust,  He  would  have  made  of 
Abaddon  a  truly  epicene  kingdom,  frequented  by 
bardashes  and  catamites.  No,  for  hell  we  should 
turn  to  Stravinsky  and  what  a  dashing,  erratic, 
spontaneous  discordant  devil  we  might  expect 
from  him!  A  devil  in  quintuple  and  sextuple 
rhythms,  a  devil  cap-a-pie  with  triplets  in  six- 
teenths, and  figurations  after  the  worst  manner 
of  sheol,  a  delightful,  insinuating,  firefly,  nervous, 
marvellous  fellow  of  a  fiend  with  piccolos,  flutes, 
clarinets,  hautboys,  bassoons,  French  horns,  and 
celestas  at  his  beck  and  call,  a  Zamiel  with  nerve- 
racking  glissandos  on  the  violins  and  deep,  pas- 
sionate, long-bowed,  mocking  viola  notes  at  his  com- 
[166] 


Heaven    and    Hell    in    Music 

mand,  Beelzebub  with  a  shower  of  shuddering  oc- 
taves and  a  flood  of  discordant  tenths,  an  Apollyon 
who  could  sing  bass  and  tenor  and  a  little  falsetto, 
in  fact  a  regular  bing-bang-boom  hell  of  a  devil 
in  the  best  Russian  Ballet  manner  I 

Now  a  Stravinsky  devil  played  against  a  Cesar 
Franck  heaven  would  make  a  Faust  that  would 
keep  the  oldest  subscriber  to  the  Opera  awake,  and 
would  effectually  destroy  all  hope  for  the  future  of 
Hun  music  even  in  Germany.  Even  old  Nietzsche, 
could  he  hear  it,  would  be  delighted  with  this 
nexus  of  mysticism  and  nervous  energy,  this  com- 
bat of  the  life-force  with  the  spirit  of  God ! 

November  18,  1918. 


[167] 


Sir  Arthur  Sullivan 

"  The  end  of  art  is  unquestionably  pleasure,  but 
pleasure  is  a  term  that  touses  the  suspicions  of  the 
British  matron.  Even  at  the  present  day  when  the 
derision  of  the  world  has  driven  her  to  acknowledge 
'  art  *  as  one  of  the  necessities  of  civilized  life,  she 
instinctively  seeks  those  forms  of  it  that  convey  some- 
thing else  as  well  as  pleasure.  She  prefers  an  ora- 
torio to  an  opera,  an  archaic  or  highly  mannerized 
picture  which  gives  her  an  opportunity  for  study  to 
one  of  direct  sensuous  appeal." 

Emily  James  Putnam:  "The  Lady." 


Sir  Arthur  Sullivan 


IN  h€r  preface  to  the  new  edition  of  "  Eight- 
eenth Century  Studies,"  by  far  the  most  re- 
markable of  her  books,  Vernon  Lee  pauses 
to  point  out  the  fact  that  comparatively  little 
"  available  immortality "  (thrice  wondrous 
phrase!)  is  reserved  for  the  musician.  Museums 
preserv^e  and  cherish  the  work  of  painter  and 
sculptor ;  libraries  house  poet  and  prose  artist,  not 
alone  the  work  of  the  masters  but  also  that  of 
inferior  men,  their  forerunners,  imitators,  and 
rivals,  as  well.  The  case  of  the  musician,  whose 
work  remains  incomplete  until  it  is  interpreted,  is 
exceptional.  Space  may  be  crowded  but  room 
can  always  be  found  for  more  objects  but  time  is 
inexorable  and  music  occupies  time  instead  of 
space.  So  in  our  concert  halls  the  great  names 
gradually  crowd  out  the  feebler  ones.  Mo- 
ments can  no  longer  be  spared  for  Pic- 
cinni,  Sacchini,  and  Hasse.  Of  the  glories  of 
eighteenth  century  music  Bach,  Gluck,  Handel, 
Haydn,  and  Mozart  alone  have  survived.  In  the 
mid-nineteenth  century  Bellini,  Donizetti,  Rossini, 
and  Meyerbeer  held  nine-tenths  of  the  stage  at  the 
old  Academy  of  Music.     In  the  twentieth  century 

[in] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

three  men,  Wagner,  Verdi,  and  Puccini,  had  almost 
acquired  a  monopoly  of  the  singing  theatres  until 
the  war  drove  Wagner  out  and  the  names  of  his 
heroes  became  the  names  of  German  railroads  and 
trenches  in  France.  Much  that  is  lovely  in  music 
must  thus  inevitably  disappear  from  the  ken  of  man 
unless  the  revival  of  such  a  work  as  Monteverde's 
Orfeo  or  Pergolesi's  La  Serva  Padrona  may  serve 
to  teach  a  careless  public  that  carved  chalices  of 
pure  gold  lie  buried  in  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
century  treasure  houses. 

An  extremely  meagre  portion  of  this  available 
immortality  has  been  allotted  to  English  compos- 
ers. Even  in  England  the  Italian  or  German  has 
always  held  the  centre  of  the  stage  or  the  con- 
cert platform.  Handel  lived  in  London  for  many 
years,  and  Beethoven,  Haydn,  Weber,  and  Men- 
delssohn all  wrote  works  for  the  English  public. 
The  greater  genius  of  foreign  musicians  has  thus 
driven  British  music  off  the  boards.  Even  the 
great  Purcell  only  exists  in  the  musical  histories  or 
in  the  minds  of  antiquarian  enthusiasts,  while 
Balfe  and  Wallace,  once  the  prides  of  the  London 
theatres,  have  been  sent  on  tour  in  the  provinces, 
entrusted  to  the  mercies  of  amateurs,  church 
choirs,  and  incompetent  travelling  companies.  As 
for  the  moderns,  Delius,  Holbrooke,  Bantock, 
[172] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

Scott,  Wallace,  and  Ireland  have  found  the  com- 
petition of  Richard  Strauss,  Igor  Stravinsky, 
Rimsky-KorsakofF,  Puccini,  and  Debussy  too 
strong  to  combat  effectively.  Even  Elgar,  who 
seemed  for  a  time  to  be  conquering  new  worlds  of 
the  symphony  and  oratorio,  is  gradually  falling 
into  deserved  disrepute.  Probably  not  one  of 
these  men  will  be  able  to  command  more  than  a 
sporadic  particle  of  time  in  the  concert  halls  ten 
years  from  now.  But  England  boasts  one  com- 
poser who,  I  think,  will  still  be  heard  when  all  of 
us,  young  and  old  alike,  are  dead.  That  composer 
is  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan. 

No  adequate  life  of  this  musical  genius  has  yet 
appeared.  There  have  been  many  biographers 
but  not  one  of  them  discusses  his  music  with  any 
discernment  or  authority,  not  one  of  them  writes 
with  a  trace  of  literary  charm.  The  longest  and 
the  most  recent,  "  Gilbert,  Sullivan,  and  D'Oyly 
Carte,"  by  Fran9ois  Cellier  and  Cunningham 
Bridgeman  (Sir  Isaac  Pitman  and  Sons;  London, 
1914)  scarcely  refers  to  the  music  at  all.  Cellier 
died  while  the  work  was  in  progress  and  Bridge- 
man  frankly  admits  that  he  knows  nothing  what- 
ever about  the  tonal  art.  It  is  also  obvious  that 
he  knows  nothing  about  the  art  of  writing.  Of  the 
others  B.  W.  Findon's  "  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  and 
[173] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

His  Operas  "  (Sisley's  Ltd. ;  London,  1908)  is  the 
best,  but  it  is  very  slight.  C.  Willeby's  book  in 
the  Masters  of  English  Music  Series  (London, 
1893)  is  practically  worthless,  and  the  same  may 
be  said  for  H.  Saxe  Wyndham's  "  Arthur  Sulli- 
van "  (George  Newnes;  London,  1901).  Arthur 
Lawrence's  "Sir  Arthur .  Sullivan "  (Bowdon; 
London;  1899)  is  padded  to  a  decent  length,  but 
the  book  does  not  contain  two  illuminating  or  sug- 
gestive phrases.  The  bibliography  in  this  work 
is  useful,  however.  H.  Augustine  Simcoe's  "  Sul- 
livan versus  Critic"  (Simpkin,  Marshall,  Ham- 
ilton, Kent  and  Co.,  Ltd. ;  London,  1906)  is  a  com- 
pilation of  adverse  and  favourable  criticisms  of 
the  man's  work,  but  as  the  emphasis  is  put  upon 
Izfanhoe  and  The  Light  of  the  World  the  book  falls 
under  the  classification  of  literary  curiosities. 
Louis  Engel's  paper  in  "  From  Handel  to  Halle  " 
is,  of  course,  entirely  negligible  and  the  article  in 
Grove's  Dictionary,  written  by  Sir  George  Grove 
himself,  while  sufficiently  appreciative,  is  little 
more  than  a  catalogue. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  work  touching  the 
subject  is  "  The  Savoy  Opera  "  by  Percy  Fitz- 
gerald (Chatto  and  Windus;  1894).  Unfortu- 
nately Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  not  a  musician  and  the 
emphasis  in  the  book  is  laid  on  Gilbert's  contribu- 
[174] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

tion.  However  he  gives  us  a  better  account  of  the 
method  of  collaboration  than  is  to  be  found  else- 
where and  his  infrequent  musical  judgments  are 
very  acute.  He  is  not  taken  in,  for  instance,  by 
Sullivan's  oratorios.  "  Unfortunately  for  the  de- 
velopment of  his  talent,"  writes  Mr.  Fitzgerald, 
"  he  was  attracted  by  the  forms  of  oratorio,  usu- 
ally written  for  some  great  festival,  whose  rather 
stilted  academical  style  often  checks  all  airiness 
and  spontaneousness."  And  of  The  Martyr  of 
Antioch,  Ivanhoe,  and  The  Golden  Legend  he 
writes  with  rare  perspicacity,  "  These  are  excel- 
lent, scholarly  works,  but  they  seem  to  lack  in- 
spiration, and  are  academical  in  style  and  treat- 
ment. It  may  be  laid  down  that  every  trained 
musician  can  write  his  cantata  or  oratorio,  just 
as  every  litterateur  can  write  his  novel  or  biogra- 
phy. .  .  .  Without  inspiration  these  things  are 
mere  exercises.  Ivanhoe  was  certainly  a  pon- 
derous work,  more  like  a  vasi  symphony  pro- 
tracted through  several  acts  than  an  opera." 

There  is  to  be  observed  a  tendency  on  the  part 
of  most  of  the  other  biographers  to  emphasize  and 
exaggerate  the  importance  of  the  minor  work  of 
Sullivan.  It  would  be  perhaps  too  much  to  say 
that  the  composer  of  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers 
would  be  forgotten  if  that  were  his  only  contri- 
[175] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

bution  to  the  tone  art,  but  to  say,  as  some  have 
said,  that  the  Sullivan  of  the  hymns,  the  Sullivan 
of  the  string  quartet,  the  Sullivan  of  The  Golden 
Legend  and  The  Light  of  the  World,  the  Sullivan 
of  the  In  Memoriam  overture,  the  Sullivan  of  the 
music  for  The  Tempest^  the  Sullivan  of  the  Irish 
Symphony,  the  Sullivan  of  the  ballet,  The  En- 
chanted Isle,  the  Sullivan  of  the  concerto  for  'cello, 
the  Sullivan  of  the  Te  Deum,  or  the  Sullivan  of 
Ivanhoe  is  a  greater  Sullivan  than  the  Sullivan  of 
the  Savoy  operas  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  the 
Wagner  of  the  C  major  symphony  is  a  greater 
Wagner  than  the  Wagner  of  Tristan  und  Isolde, 
Some  of  this  music  is  good,  some  of  it  is  even  de- 
lightful, but  none  of  it  is  important  enough  to 
carry  its  composer  over  the  treacherous  sandbars 
of  a  decade  in  the  memory  of  man.  A  good  deal  of 
it  is  simply  well-made  academic  music  in  the 
standard  forms. 

The  great  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  then,  the  lasting 
composer,  was  the  writer  of  the  Savoy  operas, 
more  particularly  still  the  collaborator  of  Gilbert. 
For,  curiously  enough,  Sullivan  failed,  compara- 
tively speaking  (sometimes  outright)  even  here 
in  his  true  vein  of  light  opera  when  some  one 
other  than  Gilbert  furnished  him  the  book  on 
which  to  work.  Box  and  Cox,  The  Beauty  Stone, 
[176] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

The  Chieftain,  The  Emerald  Isle,  and  Haddon 
Hall  are  all  but  forgotten.  They  will  soon  pass 
into  the  limbo  of  things,  become  outcasts  in  the 
universe  of  art.  No  available  immortality  is  re- 
served for  them.  It  is  but  just  to  remark  that  W. 
S.  Gilbert  was  quite  as  much  lost  without  his 
friend.  The  plays  which  he  wrote  alone,  the 
books  which  he  offered  to  other  composers,  are  no 
longer  the  source  of  much  more  than  a  little  inno- 
cent merriment.  To  say  truth  Gilbert's  satire,  his 
sense  of  parody,  burlesque,  and  caricature,  palls 
unless  diluted,  stimulated,  pointed,  and  made  deli- 
cate by  the  melody  of  Sullivan.  Nowhere  else,  un- 
less we  except  the  Brothers  de  Goncourt,  can  we 
find  an  example  of  artists  so  well  fitted  to  work 
together.  So  it  follows  that  it  is  on  the  series 
commonly  called  the  Savoy  Operas,  although  sev- 
eral of  them  were  not  in  the  first  instance  pro- 
duced at  the  Savoy,^  that  Sullivan's  chief  claim  to 
serious  consideration  as  an  important  composer 
rests.  Trial  hy  Jury,  Pinafore,  The  Pirates  of 
Penzance,  Patience,  lolanthe.   The  Mikado,   The 

1  The  Pirates  of  Penzcmce,  for  instance,  was  produced  at 
the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre  in  New  York,  December  31,  1879. 
A  single  performance  for  purposes  of  copyright  was  given 
at  Paignton,  England,  on  the  previous  afternoon,  and  the 
London  production  was  made  at  the  Opera  Comique,  April 
3,  1880.  At  Paignton  Richard  Mansfield  was  the  Major 
General. 

[177] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

Yeomen  of  the  Guardy  and  The  Gondoliers,  and 
probably  even  The  Sorcerer,  The  Princess  Ida, 
and  Rvddigore,^  operas  with  which  this  generation 
is  strangely  unfamiliar,  will  brave  the  fury  of  time 
as  steadfastly  as  any  of  their  French  or  Italian 
contemporaries.  Indeed,  aside  from  The  Barber 
of  Seville  and  Die  Meister singer,  can  any  one  point 
to  other  comic  operas  as  good  as  these  composed 
during  the  nineteenth  century? 

Sullivan  has  been  called  the  English  Auber  and 
again,  the  English  Offenbach.  Neither  epithet  is 
just,  neither  is  apposite.  Auber  wrote  light  music 
and  insofar  as  that  matters  in  a  question  of  com- 
parison Sullivan  may  be  called  Auberian;  Offen- 
bach wrote  burlesques  and  insofar  as  that  matters 
in  a  question  of  comparison  Sullivan  may  be  called 
Offenbachian.  Sullivan  once  said  to  Findon: 
"  This  epithet,  *  the  English  Offenbach,'  was  first 
given  me  in  a  burst  of  ill-natured  spleen  by  G.  A. 
Macfarren,  and  he  used  it  in  his  article  on  Music 
in   the    Encyclopedia   Britannica.     It   was    never 

1  Ruddigore  is  the  only  one  of  the  series  never  revived  at 
the  Savoy.  It  has  commonly  heen  called  a  failure.  But  the 
work  was  given  288  times  during  the  original  run.  It  con- 
tains some  of  Sullivan's  most  charming  music,  but  the  enor- 
mous cost  of  mounting  and  dressing  this  opera  is  out  of 
ratio  to  the  drawing  power  in  a  small  theatre.  Originally, 
£6,000  was  spent  on  the  dresses  and  properties,  £2,000  on 
the  scenery, 

[178] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

used  as  a  compliment."  Dr.  Hanslick  must  have 
heard  it  somewhere  for  he  refers  to  the  matter  in 
his  review  of  The  Mikado:  "  Sullivan  has  been  re- 
proached with  imitating  Offenbach.  It  shows  at 
any  rate  more  sense  to  learn  from  Offenbach  than 
to  abuse  him.  Offenbach's  exuberant  richness  of 
melody  and  sparkling  wit  certainly  cannot  be  ac- 
quired ;  but  what  might  and  should  be  learned  from 
him  are  the  terse  forms,  the  well-chosen  rhythms, 
the  adaptability  to  the  voice,  the  judiciously  ar- 
ranged orchestra.  In  all  these  things  Sullivan  has 
taken  the  composer  of  Fortunio  as  his  pattern, 
without  giving  up  his  own  independence.  That 
the  Englishman  has  not  attained  the  sparkling 
liveliness  and  piquant  charm  of  the  Frenchman 
(sic)  is  easily  to  be  understood;  but  on  the  other 
hand  Sullivan  shows  himself  in  concerted  numbers 
to  be  the  more  thoroughly  cultivated  musician." 
It  seems  fairly  obvious  now  that  Sullivan  never 
attains  the  champagne-like  sparkle,  the  flash  of  the 
boulevards,  du  chic  of  Orphee  aux  Enfers;  nor  is 
there  to  be  found  in  his  music  any  parallel  to  the 
poignant  and  touching  emotion  of  the  last  act  of 
Les  Conies  d' Hoffmann.  On  the  other  hand  Sul- 
livan is  seldom,  if  ever,  banal,  never  vulgar,  while 
page  after  page  of  Offenbach  is  sheer  shoddy. 
The  composer  of  Patience  writes  with  a  grace,  a 
[179] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

refinement  of  style,  a  musicianship  which,  except 
occasionally,  are  never  to  be  met  with  in  the  music 
of  the  composer  of  La  Grande  Duchesse.  Sulli- 
van's musical  style,  indeed,  may  be  regarded  as 
classic  rather  than  romantic.  And  it  may  be 
observed  that  the  musical  idioms  of  the  two  are 
almost  as  distinct  as  those  of  Wagner  and  Verdi. 
Offenbach,  albeit  a  German  Jew,  gave  a  new  im- 
petus to  the  lighter  style  of  French  music;  while 
Sullivan's  muse  breathed  as  truly  insular  an  air 
as  that  of  William  Shakespeare.  One  thing  is 
certain,  that  Sullivan's  operas  are  much  more 
alive  today  than  those  of  Auber  and  Offenbach. 

But  in  comparing  Sullivan  with  his  Viennese 
contemporaries  Hanslick  is  on  surer  ground  and 
he  makes  an  excellent  point :  "  Sir  Arthur  Sulli- 
van's music  .  .  .  adapts  itself  to  the  words  in  an 
unconstrained  and  natural  manner;  it  is  always 
melodious,  lively,  and  uniform  in  style,  and  upon 
this  point  we  lay  great  stress.  From  year  to  year 
we  have  occasion  to  lament  over  the  false  exagger- 
ation and  deterioration  of  operetta  which,  mistak- 
ing its  very  being  and  limits,  makes  a  show  of 
tragic  pathos,  with  instrumentation  a  la  Wagner, 
and  with  grand  tenor  and  prima  donna  parts.  .  .  . 
Any  one  who  can  call  to  mind  the  Vienna  operettas 
of  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years  will  confess  that 
[180] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 


their  charming  details  are  almost  always  spoiled 
by  a  complete  absence  of  style.  Ballads  with  the 
popular  harp  accompaniment  take  turns  with 
grandiose  noisy  finales;  love  duets  between  Hans 
and  Grethe  end  in  loud  unison  a  la  Verdi  on  the 
high  B  flat  or  C ;  merry  scenes  at  a  fair  rival  the 
conspiracy  in  the  Huguenots.  Most  of  the  com- 
posers who  write  for  our  smaller  theatres  appear 
to  wish  above  anything  to  show  that  they  know 
how  to  write  grand  opera,  while  in  reality  they 
only  show  that  they  do  not  know  how  to  write 
operetta.  Alluding  to  a  remark  of  Berlioz,  I  may 
compare  them  to  troubadours,  who  wander 
through  the  land  with  trombones  on  their  backs 
instead  of  guitars.^  .  .  .  The  songs  in  The 
Mikado  are  so  intelligible,  and  kept  within  such 
modest  limits,  that  powerful  lungs  and  technical 
perfection  are  almost  as  little  needed  for  them  as 

1  This  is  as  true  today  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Dr.  Hans- 
lick.  The  orchestration  and  the  demands  made  on  the  sing- 
ers in  Dr.  I>eo  Fall's  Die  Geschiedene  Frau,  produced  in 
English  as  The  Girl  in  the  Train,  the  plot  of  which  is  as 
boisterous  and  gay  as  any  book  Offenbach  set,  are  fre- 
quently as  heavy  as  those  of  a  Wagnerian  music  drama. 
Lehdr,  perhaps  misled  by  semi-serious  subjects,  made  the 
same  mistake  in  Ziguenerliebe  and  Eva.  Even  Oskar 
Straus  fell  in  Ein  Walzertranim.  It  is  perfectly  clear  to 
all  of  us  today  (as  it  was  to  Dr.  Hanslick  at  the  time  the 
work  was  first  produced)  that  the  music  of  Die  Fledermaus 
goes  beyond  all  the  reasonable  bounds  of  operetta. 
[181] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

for  the  music  of  Adam,  Hiller,  Monsigny,  and 
Gretry.  The  orchestra  is  subservient  to  the  sing- 
ing, without  failing  to  lend  a  brighter  colouring  or 
sharper  characteristics  in  the  right  place." 

It  may  safely  be  said  that  the  ballad  is  the 
form  most  natural  to  the  English  composer. 
Without  going  into  a  discussion  of  the  work  of 
such  men  as  Molloy  and  Marzials  it  is  sufficient 
to  recall  that  The  Beggar'* s  Opera  (which  is  a 
pastiche)  and  the  works  of  Balfe  and  Wallace, 
whose  operas  pleased  poet  and  peasant  in  the  mid- 
nineteenth  century,  are  based  on  the  ballad.  And 
the  ballad  is  an  outstanding  feature  in  Sullivan's 
operettas.  Such  numbers  as  The  Nightingale^s 
Song  and  A  Maiden  Fair  to  See  in  Pinafore^  or 
Frederic's  air,  Ohy  is  there  not  one  maiden  breast, 
in  The  Pirates  are  capital  examples.  Sometimes 
Sullivan  transcends  the  form  as  in  Jack  Point's 
I  have  a  song  to  sing,  0!  in  The  Yeomen  of  the 
Guard,  Sullivan's  favourite  among  his  own  works. 
Here  an  exceedingly  ingenious  metrical  scheme  of 
Gilbert's  is  handled  with  extraordinary  effect  and 
the  tragic  return  of  this  ballad  in  the  last  finale  of 
the  opera,  in  which  the  mood  is  varied  by  a  change 
in  the  situation,  is  as  fine  an  example  of  a  device  of 
this  kind  as  is  to  be  found  anywhere  in  lyric 
drama.  Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  song  is 
[18a] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

purely  English  in  style.  Recall  Take  a  pair  of 
sparkling  eyes  in  The  Gondoliers.  This  air,  red- 
olent of  lanes  and  lassies,  hawthorns,  briars, 
and  holly  branches,  is  as  English  as  pounds,  shil- 
lings, and  pence,  and  yet  (perhaps  I  should  say 
therefore)  it  is  equal  to  anything  tenorish  in  Ital- 
ian opera.  I  myself  prefer  it  to  Spirto  gentily  La 
donna  e  mobile,  Una  furtiva  lagrima,  yes,  reader, 
even  to  Dalla  sua  pace!  There  are  many  exam- 
ples of  the  old  English  glee  form  also  to  be  ob- 
served and  noted.  Of  these  probably  the  best  is 
A  British  tar  is  a  soaring  sovl  in  Pinafore,  But 
one  of  the  most  indicative  signs  of  the  true  English 
spirit  in  Sullivan  is  the  almost  complete  negligence 
(a  negligence  only  emphasized  by  the  few  exam- 
ples such  as  Mabel's  air.  Stay,  wand*rvng  one)  of 
3-4  time  in  his  work,  for  3—4*  time  is  almost  as 
foreign  to  the  real  feeling  of  England  as  anything 
else  is  to  the  real  feeling  of  Vienna.  Pinafore, 
therefore,  is  mostly  written  in  common  time,  just 
as  Der  Rosenkavalier  is  mostly  written  in  waltz 
rhythms. 

It  does  not  seem  necessary  to  insist  on  this  point 
of  Sullivan's  insularity.  Proofs  of  it  are  to  be 
met  on  every  page  of  his  work  and  in  point  of  style 
it  is  as  silly  to  compare  his  music  with  that  of 
Offenbach  or  Auber  as  it  would  be  to  institute  a 
[183] 


Sir   Arthur   Sullivan 

similar  comparison  between  the  work  of  Shakes- 
peare and  that  of  Moliere.  His  early  German 
training,  which  might  have  put  its  mark  upon  his 
manner,  served  only,  as  best  it  might,  to  make  of 
him  a  thorough  musician.  In  no  way  is  this  mu- 
sicianship more  evident  than  in  his  treatment  of 
recitative.  As  recitative  almost  invariably  accom- 
panies burlesque  passages  in  the  operettas  he  goes 
to  the  Italians  for  his  models.  If  you  compare 
Buttercup's  entrance.  Hail,  men-o* -wars-men,  with 
the  declamation  of  Donizetti  and  Verdi  you  will 
discover  little  essential  difference.  Once  at  least 
Sullivan  used  his  vast  talent  for  this  sort  of  joke 
to  effect  in  a  passage  which  another  composer 
would  doubtless  have  set  in  quite  another  way:  I 
refer  to  Bunthorne's  soliloquy  in  Patience. 

But  for  the  greatest  proofs  of  Sullivan's  inspira- 
tion and  musicianship,  his  unflagging  vitality,  and 
his  unfailing  mastery  of  his  material  it  is  perhaps 
wisest  to  turn  to  his  concerted  numbers,  of  which, 
I  suppose,  the  quartet  in  The  Gondoliers,  In  a  con^ 
templative  fashion,  is  the  most  justly  celebrated 
example.  This  quartet,  indeed,  is  a  masterpiece 
of  technical  achievement  and  yet  in  a  good  per- 
formance difficulty  disappears  in  delight.  Begin- 
ning in  a  measured  style  the  music  works  up  to  a 
[184] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

polyphonic  climax  unexampled  in  light  opera. ^ 
Indeed  you  will  look  far  to  find  its  rival  in  serious 
opera  and  yet  never  for  a  moment  does  it  sug- 
gest anything  pretentious.  Therein  lies  its  charm. 
Gianetta's  air  in  2-4*  time  sung  against  an  orches- 
tra playing  in  3—4?  time  in  the  opening  scene  of 
The  Gondoliers  is  another  case  of  which  we  find 
an  earlier  example  in  the  brilliant  duet  of  Frederic 
and  Mabel  in  the  first  act  of  The  Pirates  in  which 
the  two  sing  in  3—4?  time  while  the  chorus  chatters 
in  2-4  time.  Remember  also  the  delightful  treat- 
ment of  the  principals  with  the  chorus  in  the  finale, 
This  very  night,  of  the  first  act  of  Pinafore. 
These  musical  feats  are  not  accomplished,  as  so 
many  dull  musicians  would  accomplish  them,  at  the 
expense  of  clearness  and  amusement.  Sullivan 
had  an  unerring  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  and 
when  he  wrote  music  of  this  kind  it  was  always 
placed  where  it  should  be.  He  never  made  mis- 
takes. These  songs  are  not  the  least  popular 
numbers  in  the  operas  in  which  they  occur.     In- 

1  This  quartet  really  suggests  work  of  the  great  madrigal 
period  in  England,  although,  of  course,  madrigals  were  sung 
unaccompanied.  William  Byrd,  John  Dowland,  or  Thomas 
Greaves  might  have  signed  this  music  with  profit  to  their 
reputations.  There  are  other  charming  examples  derived 
from  the  madrigal  form  in  Sullivan's  work,  notably  Brightly 
dawns  our  wedding  day  in  The  Mikado. 

[185] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

deed  they  are  always  redemanded  vociferously. 
His  capacity  for  setting  words  of  divers  sorts 
seemed  to  be  endless.  When  Gilbert  offered  him 
a  sentimental  ditty  he  bathed  it  in  lovely  melody ; 
a  quartet,  the  words  of  which  were  relatively  un- 
important, he  treated  in  a  retiary,  polyphonic 
fashion,  while  he  set  a  comic  scene  in  the  extreme 
of  simplicity,  emphasizing  the  words  and  pointing 
the  wit,  to  be  sure,  but  never  allowing  the  music 
to  usurp  first  place.  This  patter  song  music, 
heard  without  the  text,  means  next  to  nothing,  but 
the  text  without  the  music  is  about  one  third  as 
effective  as  the  two  in  combination.  Any  of  the 
Savoy  operas  contains  one  or  two  examples  of  this 
kind  of  song.  The  best,  perhaps,  are  /  am  the 
monarch  of  the  seas  in  Pinafore,  the  Major  Gen- 
eral's song  in  The  Pirates,  in  which  a  scale  is  made 
to  do  duty  for  a  tune,  and,  above  all,  of  course, 
the  famous  dream  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  in 
lolanthe,  with  its  nervous  and  Freudian  accom- 
paniment. Edward's  song,  A  policeman^s  lot  is 
not  a  hap  pi/  one  and  the  rollicking  duet  between 
Grosvenor  and  Bunthorne  in  Patience  should  also 
certainly  be  mentioned.  In  songs  of  this  nature, 
written  in  most  instances  for  voices  of  less  than  an 
octave,  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  miss  a  word  if 
the  interpreter  be  capable  of  decent  enunciation, 
[186] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

so  crystal  is  the  composer's  music,  it  was  Sulli- 
van's plan  to  make  the  orchestra  speak.  Note, 
for  example,  the  pompous  eupeptic  self-assurance, 
the  rocking-horse  jauntiness  of  the  orchestral  ac- 
companiment to  The  Duke  of  Plaza-Toro  in  The 
Gondoliers.  The  Grand  Inquisitor's  air.  No 
probable,  possible  shadow  of  doubt,  no  possible 
doubt  whatever,  in  the  same  work  is  simply  irre- 
sistible. Of  course  the  words  are  excruciatingly 
droll  and  the  art  of  the  performer  counts  for  a 
good  deal,  but  the  fresh  and  simple  music  is  so  art- 
less in  its  emphatic  rhythm  that  it  seems  to  bear 
in  its  flow  the  meaning  of  the  catch  phrase  with 
which  the  song  concludes.  The  second  air  of  the 
Inquisitor,  There  lived  a  king,  is  only  less  good. 
The  legendary  nature  of  the  tale  sets  Sullivan's 
muse  working  in  the  old  ballad  form.  Conse- 
quently there  is  more  tune,  indeed  a  bit  of  florid 
music  for  the  singer  to  deliver.  There  are  three 
musical  jokes  in  the  orchestration  of  this  song. 
On  the  word  "  toddy  "  Sullivan's  orchestra  imitates 
a  bagpipe.  At  this  passage  in  the  next  verse  the 
word  is  "  admiral  "  and  we  hear  a  reminiscence  of 
the  hornpipe  while  at  the  word  "  shoddy  "  in  the 
third  verse  a  scoriae  scale  does  the  trick.  Of 
course  this  sort  of  thing  has  been  done  by  every 
composer  from  Haydn,  who  imitated  worms,  to 
[187] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

Strauss,  who  imitated  peacocks.     Moussorgsky's 
music  teems  with  such  effects.     By  themselves  they 
perhaps  mean  nothing  and  are  scarcely  worth  the 
doing,  but  in  Sullivan's  case  at  least,  where  they 
serve  to  embellish  and  decorate  his  inevitably  suit- 
able  music,   they   more   than   justify   themselves. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  they   are  useful  in  keeping  the 
operettas  alive,  for  just  such  details,  which  may 
pass  unnoticed  at  a  first  hearing,  are  immensely 
valuable  in  reviving  an  auditor's  interest  at  the  sec- 
ond.    Examples  of  suggestive  naturalness  are  not 
rare  in  Sullivan's  music  but  three  more  will  suf- 
fice.    After  the  words,  "  And  the  tar  who  plows 
the  water  "  in  the  trio  in  Pinafore  the  orchestra 
imitates  the  creaking  of  nautical  buckets ;  in  the 
song.  The  Magnet  and  the  Churn,  in  Patience  both 
churning    and    scissors    grinding    are    simulated ; 
while  the  introduction  of  the  flageolet  to  convey 
the  suggestion  of  Nanki-Poo's  death  at  the  words 
**  the  criminal  cried  "  in  The  Mikado  is  decidedly 
a  forerunner  of  a  similar  effect  in  Strauss's  Till 
Eidenspiegel.     As   W.    S.    Rockstro    once   wisely 
wrote,  referring  to  a  Sullivan  opera :     "  It  over- 
flows    with     witty     passages  —  passages     which 
would  make  the  words  sound  witty  were  they  ever 
so  tame.     The  fun  of  very  clever  people  is  always 
the  richest  fun  of  all.     Its  refinement  is  a  thou- 
[188] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

sand  times  more  telling  than  the  coarser  utterances 
of  ordinary  humour.  Arthur  Sullivan  has  made 
every  one  in  London  laugh;  yet  the  predominat- 
ing quality  in  his  comic  opera  music  is  reverence 
for  Art  —  conscientious  observance  of  its  laws  in 
little  things.  It  may  sound  absurd  to  say  so,  but 
no  one  who  takes  the  trouble  to  examine  his  scores 
can  deny  the  fact.  .  .  .  His  treatment  of  the 
orchestra  shows  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
nature  of  its  instruments  and  a  genius  for  their 
combination  such  as  few  contemporary  masters 
have  surpassed.". 

Sullivan's  father  was  a  bandmaster,  and  when 
he  was  a  lad  of  eight,  so  the  legend  runs,  he  in- 
veigled the  members  of  his  father's  band  into  let- 
ting him  try  their  instruments,  with  assistance  and 
instruction  in  each  case.  At  fourteen,  therefore, 
he  was  capable  of  performing  on  most  of  them  and 
this  familiarity  with  the  instruments  themselves 
proved  of  immense  service  to  him  in  colouring  his 
scores.  His  use  of  the  oboe  and  the  bassoon  is 
especially  to  be  noted.  But,  although  his  instru- 
mentation is  delightful,  and  often  fantastic,  it 
never  obscures  the  voice  of  the  singer  or  diverts 
the  mind  of  the  listener  from  the  words.  Sullivan 
never  forgot  that  he  was  writing  operetta.  His 
method  of  work  was  interesting.  He  orchestrated 
[189] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

a  piece  only  after  he  had  attended  several  rehear- 
sals, only,  in  fact,  after  a  scene  had  been  finally 
fixed  by  the  stage  director.  By  that  time  he  had 
penetrated  to  the  depths  of  its  humour  or  senti- 
ment and  with  unerring  touch  he  was  able  to  give 
exactly  the  required  colouring  to  his  instrumenta- 
tion. 

Gilbert  himself  was  not  musical.  It  is  said  that 
he  confessed  that  he  knew  but  two  tunes,  one  was 
Rvle,  Britannia^  and  the  other  he  had  forgotten. 
Another  story  has  it  that  he  could  not  distinguish 
this  air  from  God  Save  the  King.  He  always  had 
a  fear  that  singers  would  be  bad  actors  and  he 
especially  distrusted  tenors  in  this  regard.  The 
story  of  his  first  meeting  with  Sullivan,  told  by 
Wells  in  Gilbert's  own  words,  is  worth  repeating: 

"  I  had  written  a  piece  with  Fred  Clay,  called 
Ages  AgOy  and  was  rehearsing  it  at  the  old  Gal- 
lery of  Illustration.  At  the  same  time  I  was  busy 
on  my  Palace  of  Truth,  in  which  there  is  a  char- 
acter, one  Zoram,  who  is  a  musical  impostor. 
Now  I  am  as  unmusical  as  any  man  in  England. 
I  am  quite  incapable  of  whistling  an  air  in  tune, 
although  I  have  a  singularly  good  ear  for  rhythm. 
I  was  bound  to  make  Zoram  express  his  musical 
ideas  in  technical  language,  so  I  took  up  my  En- 
cyclopedia Britannica  and  turning  to  the  word 
[190] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

Harmony  selected  a  suitable  sentence  and  turned 
it  into  sounding  blank  verse.  Curious  to  know 
whether  this  would  pass  muster  with  a  musician,  I 
feaid  to  Sullivan  (who  happened  to  be  present  at  a 
rehearsal,  and  to  whom  I  had  just  been  intro- 
duced) :  '  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr. 
Sullivan,  because  you  will  be  able  to  settle  a  ques- 
tion which  has  just  arisen  between  Mr.  Clay  and 
myself.  My  contention  is  that  when  a  musician, 
who  is  master  of  many  instruments,  has  a  musical 
theme  to  express  he  can  express  it  as  perfectly 
upon  the  simple  tetrachord  of  Mercury  (in  which 
there  are,  as  we  all  know,  no  diatonical  intervals 
whatever)  as  upon  the  more  elaborate  disdiapason 
(with  the  familiar  four  tetrachords  and  the  re- 
dundant note)  which,  I  need  not  remind  you,  em- 
braces in  its  simple  consonances  all  the  single, 
double,  and  inverted  chords?  '  He  reflected  for  a 
moment  and  then  asked  me  to  oblige  him  by 
repeating  the  question.  I  did  so,  and  he  replied 
that  it  was  a  nice  point  and  he  would  like  to  think 
it  over  before  giving  a  definite  reply.  That  was 
several  years  ago  and  he  has  not  reached  any  con- 
clusion yet !  " 

The   burden   of   this   ballad,   the   plea    of   this 
paper,  is  not,  after  all,  in  behalf  of  a  hearing  for 
Sullivan's  music.     There  has  never  been   a   time 
[191] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

that  I  can  remember  ( I  was  born  after  the  original 
production  of  Pinafore)  when  these  operettas  were 
not  being  performed  somewhere.^  It  is  rather 
for  more  grace  and  honour  in  their  presentation 
that  I  plead.  I  believe  there  is  no  longer  a  the- 
atre in  London  devoted  exclusively  to  their  per- 
formance.^ In  America  we  have  made  no  attempt 
to  present  them  on  a  superior  scale  since  the  sea- 
sons over  which  De  Wolf  Hopper  presided. 
Those  seasons,  however,  will  not  soon  be  forgot- 
ten. 

The  inventor  of  a  new  form  in  art,  at  least 
in  an  art  which  depends  on  interpretation,  must  be 
an  unhappy  man.  He  cannot  hope  that  his  ideals 
will  be  realized ;  he  cannot  even  hope  for  a  compe- 
tent performance.  In  the  first  place  his  works 
are  entirely  new  to  singers  schooled  in  more  con- 
ventional fields ;  in  the  second  place  his  own  ideas 
about  the  methods  by  which  his  ideals  may  be  real- 

1  It  is  an  unfortunate  fact  that  the  overtures  to  the  op- 
erettas do  not  bear  transplanting.  They  are,  for  the  most 
part,  potpourris  of  the  airs  from  the  works  which  they 
preface,  without  development  or  working  out.  Musically 
they  are  uninteresting  and  hardly  one  of  them  would  stand 
the  test  of  association  with  standard  works  on  a  symphonic 
program. 

2  Since  this  essay  was  written  this  defect  has  been  reme- 
died.    Revivals  of  all  the  Savoy  series  are  announced. 

[192] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

ized  are  necessarily  somewhat  vague.  Richard 
Wagner  was  such  a  man  and  it  is  only  since  his 
death  that  singers  have  begun  to  learn  how  to  sing 
and  act  his  works  to  the  best  advantage,  although 
in  Wagner's  own  day  it  would  have  been  very 
easy  to  get  a  good  cast  together  for  an  opera  by 
Meyerbeer  or  Rossini.  Sullivan  and  Gilbert  en- 
countered a  similar  difficulty.  They  discovered 
George  Grossmith  and  a  few  other  artists,  but  for 
the  most  part  contemporary  criticism  has  not 
found  the  highest  words  of  praise  for  their  singing 
actors. 

The  difficulty  has  not  yet  been  solved.  Very 
superior  singers  with  a  genuine  talent  for  acting 
are  required  for  these  works,  and  as  vocally  their 
difficulty  far  transcends  that  of  most  other  oper- 
ettas and  as  the  eccentric  and  ingenuous  burlesque 
devised  by  Gilbert  calls  for  a  style  of  acting  ^ 
which  fits  no  other  works  at  all  it  would  almost 
seem  as  if  the  solution  must  be  indefinitely  post- 
poned. I  never  saw  Grossmith  and  until  I  saw 
De  Wolf  Hopper  I  despaired  of  ever  hearing  a 

1  Gilbert  demanded  of  most  of  his  performers  a  certain 
artlessness,  a  naiVetd  of  expression,  uneasily  assumed  by 
such  professionals  as  Marie  Doro,  for  example,  whose 
Patience  was  an  artful  miss  or  by  Fritzi  ScheflF,  who  con- 
trived to  make  of  Yum  Yum  a  silsse  Mddel. 

[193] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

satisfactory  performance  of  the  Savoy  operas, 
which  fortunately  make  some  effect  even  when  they 
are  presented  by  parish  church  choirs. 

Until  he  assumed  the  role  of  Dick  Deadeye  in 
one  of  the  spring  revivals  of  the  Gilbert  and  Sulli- 
van operas  in  New  York,  this  singing  actor,  who 
is  assuredly  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments  of  our 
somewhat  feeble  stage,  had  been  identified  with  a 
species  of  mountebanking  known  as  American 
musical  comedy.  In  such  middle-class  spectacles 
as  Wang,  El  Capitan,  Dr.  Syntax,  The  Bride 
Elect,  Happy  Land,  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  Castles  in 
the  Air,  he  exploited  a  large  bass  voice,  an  original 
sense  of  humour,  sometimes  hard  put  to  it  in  these 
elemental  pieces  to  find  opportunity  for  its  dis- 
play, and  a  capacity  for  characterization  which 
was  seldom  allowed  freedom  to  exercise  itself,  so 
bent  were  the  librettists  on  creating  a  "  Hopper 
role." 

But  in  the  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  works  the  Hop- 
per talents  at  once  were  liberated.  We  saw,  what 
a  few  of  us  had  suspected  all  the  time,  that  here 
was  a  great  actor  and  a  great  personality,  oozing 
unctuous  humour,  authoritative  in  characteriza- 
tion, with  almost  incredibly  perfect  enunciation, 
in  short  a  man  who  should  have  been  a  world 
figure  on  the  boards.  In  any  other  country  this 
[194*] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

fellow  would  have  found  an  opportunity  to  ex- 
press himself  in  a  state  theatre.  Considering 
plays  in  our  own  language  could  one  think  of  a 
better  FalstafF,^  a  better  Caliban?  At  his  own 
game  he  could  have  played  Sir  Herbert  Tree  off 
the  New  Amsterdam  stage  or  even  off  the  boards  of 
His  Majesty's  Theatre. 

The  public  took  great  joy  in  these  Hopper  per- 
formances and  what  had  begun  as  a  Gilbert  and 
Sullivan  Opera  Company  (and  in  many  respects  a 
fine  one,  embracing  as  it  did,  Arthur  Aldridge, 
George  MacFarlane,  and  Arthur  Cunningham) 
became  in  the  end  a  De  Wolf  Hopper  Company 
which  toured  America  from  coast  to  coast.  In  all 
the  roles  he  undertook,  save  one,  he  was  success- 
ful. The  exception  was  Bunthorne.  Mr.  Hop- 
per, it  was  obvious,  understood  Bunthorne ;  he  un- 
derstood him  but  too  well.  And  so  he  gave  what 
might  be  called  a  comment  on  Bunthorne,  a  crit- 
icism of  him,  a  caricature  from  the  side-lines,  so 
to  speak,  instead  of  slipping  head  first  into  the 

1  Mr.  Hopper  has  been  seen  as  Falstaff  in  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor,  I  believe.  One  of  his  early  successes 
was  as  Pittacus  Green  in  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  pro- 
duction of  Hazel  Kirke.  As  General  Ollendorf  in  The  Beg- 
gar Student  and  as  Pausanias  in  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  he 
did  some  notable  acting.  Since  he  left  the  New  York  Hip- 
podrome he  has  appeared  as  Old  Bill  in  The  Better  'Ole. 

[195] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

fraudulent  super-aesthetic  shell,  a  feat  which,  after 
all,  his  physique  would  have  prohibited. 

But  every  other  role  he  undertook  in  the  series 
he  illuminated.  His  Edward  was  the  drollest 
figure  of  a  London  policeman  imaginable;  Phil 
May  could  have  done  no  better;  his  frolicsome 
Lord  Chancellor  and  his  perturbed  Ko-Ko  were 
pictures  to  hang  in  memory's  gallery ;  his  Deadeye 
the  most  morose  and  sullen  of  British  tars.  I  be- 
lieve that  he  appeared  as  John  Wellington  Wells. 
Unfortunately  I  missed  The  Sorcerer  ^  at  this 
time.  But  in  no  other  one  of  the  operas  did  his 
genius  rise  to  so  great  a  height  as  in  The  Yeomen 
of  the  Guard  in  which  his  Jack  Point  was  an 
amazing  compound  of  humour,  humanity,  and 
pathos. 

Alas,  Mr.  Hopper  is  now  appearing  with  trained 
elephants  and  the  greatest  musical  classics  in  our 
language  have  no  proper  setting.  It  would  be 
delightful,  indeed,  if  a  theatre  could  be  devoted  to 
them,  a  theatre  in  which  turn  and  turn  about  each 
Savoy  opera  would  be  presented.     But  as  no  one 

1  One  of  my  earliest  memories  is  connected  with  an  ama- 
teur production  of  The  Sorcerer  at  Greene's  Opera  House, 
Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa.  I  could  not  have  been  more  than 
seven  or  eight  years  old,  but  I  can  still  recall  Professor 
Leo's  vivid  performance  of  John  Wellington  Wells.  This 
was  the  first  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  opera  I  heard,  and  it  is 
the  only  time  I  have  heard  The  Sorcerer. 

[196] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

seems  likely  to  dedicate  a  theatre  to  such  a  pur- 
pose I  see  no  reason  why  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
Company  should  not  offer  us  at  least  two  of  them. 
It  will  be  urged  at  once  that  the  theatre  is  too 
large.  To  which  I  reply  that  it  is  certainly  too 
large  for  UElisir  d^ Amove  and  The  Secret  of 
Suzanne;  still  these  operas  or  others  which  require 
as  small  a  frame  are  constantly  included  in  the 
repertory.  It  may  be  said  that  spoken  dialogue  is 
lost  in  this  vast  temple,  but  we  have  heard  Der 
Freischiitz,  Manon,  The  Bartered  Bride,  and 
Fidelio  performed  there  without  great  objection 
being  raised  on  this  score.  There  are  those  who 
will  shamelessly  assert  that  the  music  is  too 
light  for  so  serious  a  theatre;  to  which  I  may 
respond  that  the  music  is  no  lighter  and  is  cer- 
tainly as  good  as  or  better  than  the  music  of 
The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  or  La  Boheme. 
If  the  objection  is  to  comic  songs  what  shall  we 
say  in  defence  of  Beckmesser's  serenade,  Lepo- 
rello's  catalogue  air,  or  Figaro's  Largo  al  facto- 
twm?  The  final  opposition  would  be  in  the  nature 
of  a  fear  that  it  would  be  difficult,  or  impossible, 
to  provide  suitable  casts  for  these  operettas  with- 
out going  outside  the  company,  but  I  should  ven- 
ture to  cast  any  one  of  them  from  the  Metropol- 
itan roster  although  I  think  it  might  be  advisable 
[197] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

to  ask  Mr.  Hopper  to  make  some  guest  appear- 
ances in  some  of  his  best  roles,  and  one  in  which 
he  has  not  yet  been  heard,  the  Duke  of  Plaza-Toro. 

So  far  as  Pinafore  or  The  Pirates  is  concerned 
there  would  be  very  little  difficulty.  Both  these 
works  are  travesties  of  Italian  opera  of  a  style 
with  which  both  audiences  and  singers  at  the 
Metropolitan  are  completely  familiar.  Such  mu- 
sic as  the  duet  in  Pinafore,  Refrain,  audacious  tar 
or  the  duet  in  The  Pirates,  Stay,  FredWic,  stay 
would  meet  with  vociferous  approval  in  this  house. 
Any  one  who  has  heard  Trovatore  could  not  fail 
to  enjoy  The  Pirates,  and  it  can  further  be  urged 
in  support  of  this  work  as  a  choice  that  there  is 
very  little  spoken  dialogue  in  the  first  act,  and  still 
less  in  the  second.  Indeed  I  think  there  is  less 
spoken  dialogue  in  The  Pirates  than  there  is  in 
Fidelio. 

The  Mikado  has  the  distinction  of  being  the  best 
lyric  drama  yet  written  to  a  Japanese  subject. 
I  make  this  statement  categorically,  bearing  in 
mind  not  only  The  Geisha,  but  also  certain  works 
by  Puccini,  Mascagni,  and  Messager.  I  am  no 
haruspice  but  I  venture  to  prophesy  that  The 
Mikado  will  be  sung  two  centuries  after  Iris, 
Madama  Butterfly,  and  Madame  Chrysantheme 
are  forgotten.  This  work,  too,  is  probably  the 
[198] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

best  opera  ever  written  to  an  English  book ;  I  can 
think  of  no  possible  alternative  except  Oberon. 

lolantJie,  too,  reminds  one  of  Oberon  because  it 
is  a  fairy  opera  and  after  Oberon  the  best.  It  is 
mountain  peaks  higher  and  more  important  than 
Crispino  e  la  Comare  or  CendriUon.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  the  overture  Sullivan  with  a  horn 
motiv  pays  a  graceful  tribute  to  Weber,  and 
doubtless  the  music  owes  much  to  both  Weber  and 
Mendelssohn  and  yet  this  fairy  music  has  a  grace 
and  a  shimmer  all  its  own.  The  opening  chorus 
is  the  inspiration  of  genius.  The  pastoral  inter- 
ludes in  this  opera  are  very  delightful,  the  parlia- 
mentary satire  as  happy  as  when  the  work  was 
first  produced.  I  should  say  that  Sullivan  lav- 
ished more  love  and  care  on  the  orchestration  of 
this  work  than  he  did  on  any  other. 

The  music  of  Patience  in  some  respects  is  the 
very  loveliest  Sullivan  ever  wrote,  but  its  perform- 
ance preconizes  difficulties  quite  beyond  the  pow- 
ers of  a  grand  opera  company.  But  I  should 
fancy  that  either  The  Yeomen  of  the  Guard  or 
The  Gondoliers  would  be  a  suitable  choice  for 
this  theatre.  The  first  work  is  more  serious  in 
intention  than  the  others  of  the  series ;  indeed  the 
end  leaves  a  frankly  melancholy  impression,  while 
the  orchestration  of  the  second,  with  its  delightful 
[199] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

treatment  of  the  drums,  the  oboe,  and  the  bassoon, 
its  Spanish  and  Italian  tunes,  its  opulent  musical 
colour  and  its  very  lovely  airs  for  soprano  and 
tenor  make  it  the  most  brilliant.  There  is  even  a 
number  for  the  ballet.  There  is,  perhaps,  an 
opportunity  to  study  Sullivan's  style  and  methods 
to  better  advantage  in  The  Gondoliers  than  else- 
where. From  the  opening  chorus,  Roses  white  and 
roses  red  to  the  final  repetition  of  the  Cachucha  it 
must  be  confessed  that  the  composer  penned  a  gay 
masterpiece.  Louis  Engel  speaks  with  amazement 
of  the  thirty  musical  numbers  of  the  score :  "  I 
very  well  remember  that  Donizetti  once  told  me 
that  he  never  contemplated  writing  more  than  thir- 
teen pieces  for  any  of  his  grand  operas.  But  then 
he  lived  in  less  exacting  times,  when  the  public  was 
not  blase  as  they  are  today  and  they  were  satisfied 
with  finding  two  or  three  melodies  easily  sticking 
to  their  memory."  .  .  .  Certainly  nothing  like  this 
work  can  be  discovered  in  the  field  of  operetta. 
For  comparison  one  must  turn  to  the  musical  com- 
edies of  the  eighteenth  century  Italians  or  to  the 
best  operas  comiques  of  the  French.  .  .  .  Some 
day  our  children  are  going  to  ask,  and  to  ask  very 
loudly,  why  the  directors  of  our  opera  always  do 
turn  to  the  foreign  masterpieces  for  the  lighter 
works  in  the  repertory  while  these  works  of  En- 
[200] 


Sir  Arthur   Sullivan 

glish  genius,  the  highest  musical  genius  that  Eng- 
land has  produced,  are  forbidden  entrance. 
January  5,  1919, 


[201] 


On  the  Rewriting  of 
Masterpieces 

The  question  whether  it  is  better  to  abide  quiet  and 
take  advantages  of  opportunities  that  come  or  to  go 
further  afield  in  search  of  them  is  one  of  the  oldest 
which  living  beings  have  had  to  deal  with.  .  .  .  The 
schism  still  lasts  and  has  resulted  in  two  great  sects 
—  animals  and  plants." 

Samuel  Butler. 


On  the   Rewriting  of 
Masterpieces 


IN  a  recent  periodical  George  Moore,^  in  an 
imaginary  conversation  with  Edmund  Gosse, 
discussed  the  advisability  of  rewriting  "  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  " :  "  The  first  part  of  the  story 
could  not  be  improved  but  the  end  is  a  sad  spec- 
tacle for  us  men  of  letters  —  the  uninspired  trying 
to  continue  the  work  of  the  inspired."  And  Mr. 
Moore  makes  a  statement  which  is  all  too  true, 
that  few  read  on  in  the  book  after  Crusoe  leaves 
the  island.  So  it  is  on  the  island  that  he  would 
have  him  write  his  memoirs,  dying  before  Friday, 
"  and  some  admirable  pages  might  be  written  on 
the  grief  of  the  man  Friday,  intermingled  with 
fears  lest  his  kindred  should  return  and  eat  him  — 
Friday,  not  Crusoe;  and  Friday  true  to  his  evan- 
gelization, would  bury  Crusoe  with  all  the  prayers 
he   could   remember.   .   .   .   Crusoe   must   not   meet 

1  George  Moore  has  rewritten  many  of  his  own  books. 
Henry  James  rewrote  all  of  his  novels  and  tales  that  he 
cared  to  preserve  for  the  definitive  edition.  On  the  other 
hand,  Ouida  believed  (and  expressed  this  belief  in  a  paper 
published  in  her  "  Critical  Studies  ")  that  once  a  book  was 
given  to  the  public,  it  became  a  part  of  life,  a  part  of  his- 
tory, and  that  its  author  had  no  right  to  tamper  with  it. 
[205] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

with  sudden  death,  rather  an  accident  among  the 
cliffs  that  would  allow  him  to  continue  his  memoirs 
from  time  to  time.  I  would  have  the  last  page  of 
the  manuscript  relate  Crusoe's  anxiety  for  Friday, 
who  he  foresees  will  die  of  grief,  and  Friday's  last 
act,  the  placing  of  the  manuscript  in  the  cave  hard 
by  the  grave,  which  would  be  necessary  for  the 
completion  of  the  story,  for  it  is  the  manuscript 
that  explains  to  the  captain  of  the  next  ship  that 
visits  the  island  the  presence  of  the  skeleton  by 
the  grave.  The  captain's  reading  the  manuscript 
would  have  given  Defoe  an  opportunity  to  evoke  a 
new  soul,  the  captain's.  How  the  poor  savage 
must  have  grieved  for  his  savior  and  master! 
*  Like  a  dog,'  he  mutters  as  he  turns  the  last 
page." 

In  reading  these  lines  my  mind  reverted  to  a 
conversation  I  once  held  with  the  sage  of  Forty- 
second  Street,  Oscar  Hammerstein,  relative  to  his 
next  production  of  opera.  Oscar's  newest  idea 
was  that  when  he  again  presented  opera  he  should 
lay  as  violent  hands  as  seemed  expedient  on  the 
published  texts  of  composers,  transposing,  rear- 
ranging, adding,  subtracting,  in  order  that  the 
entertainment  might  be  made  more  brisk,  more  ap- 
petizing to  the  customers.  He  spoke  particularly 
of  A'ida  in  which  the  principal  tenor  air  occurs  a 
[206] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

few  moments  after  the  rise  of  the  first  curtain,  an 
absurd  place  for  a  tenor  air  in  opera,  as  it  is  a 
convention  for  opera-goers  not  to  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance until  the  second  act  is  well  begun. 
Celeste  A'ida,  therefore,  in  Oscarian  opera,  is  to  be 
sung  sometime  during  the  second  or  third  act.  He 
also  thought  of  a  rearrangement  of  La  Forza  del 
Destinoy  which  he  acknowledged  was  full  of  pretty 
tunes,  and  he  reminded  me  that  when  he  had  pro- 
duced Les  Huguenots  he  had  imported  from  his 
own  Victoria  Theatre  a  wire  walker  who  simply 
transported  the  public  as  he  threaded  his  way 
back  and  forth  on  the  taut  steel  during  the  market 
scene,  diverting  attention  from  the  "  dull  music," 
how  Mary  Garden,  inserted  in  the  tenor  role  of  Le 
Jongleur  de  Notre  Damey  had  made  that  opera 
first  rate  entertainment,  and  again  how  Odette 
Valery  plus  live  vipers  and  boa  constrictors  had 
almost  made  the  music  of  Samson  et  DalUa  bear- 
able. 

The  idea  allured  me,  and  seemed,  at  first 
thought,  novel.  As  opera  is  seldom  given  as 
artistic  entertainment  there  is  no  reason  why  it 
should  be  so  solemnly  conducted.  There  are  times 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  when  one  ex- 
pects to  hear  the  gong  of  high  mass  sound  or 
Professor    William    Lyon    Phelps    lecturing    on 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

Browning.  Surely,  no  need  to  stop  with  Aida  and 
La  Forza  del  Destino,  Think  of  the  expectations 
the  impressario  would  rouse  in  the  bosoms  of 
anxious  auditors  as  each  revival  was  announced: 
"What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

The  mere  announcement  that  operatic  works  of 
art  were  to  be  so  tampered  with  would  awaken  a 
fierce  onslaught  of  critical  condemnation,  and  yet, 
on  second  thought,  I  realized  that  this  idea  of 
Oscar  Hammerstein's  was  not  a  new  one.  He 
crystallized  it  into  an  advertisable  idea,  gave  it 
the  power  to  compel  discussion,  but  he  did  not 
create  it.  Scarcely  any  work  of  art  which  re- 
quires interpretation,  play,  symphony,  or  violin 
concerto,  is  ever  performed  exactly  as  written,  and 
I  think  it  may  be  said  definitely  that  an  opera 
never  is. 

Most  conductors  have  found  it  expedient  to 
tamper  with  orchestral  masterpieces.  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe  that  all  of  them  have.  Mozart, 
Haydn,  and  Beethoven  did  not  write  for  the  mod- 
ern orchestra  and  when  their  music  is  performed 
under  modern  conditions  doubtless  some  liberties 
should  be  taken  with  the  text.  The  weak  orches- 
tration of  Chopin's  piano  concertos  has  been  rein- 
forced by  many  hands.  No  conductor  respects 
Beethoven.  Villiers  Stanford  tells  a  story  about 
[208] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

Costa:  Manns  once  borrowed  the  parts  of  Bee- 
thoven's Mass  in  D  from  the  Sacred  Harmonic 
Society.  All  went  well  until  the  Benedictus  when 
the  trombones  did  not  play.  Manns's  wrath  was 
appeased  by  the  explanation  that  the  parts  were 
pasted  over.  By  his  order  the  paper  was  torn 
off  and  Beethoven  restored.  Shortly  after  the 
Sacred  Harmonic  Society  gave  a  performance  of 
the  same  work  and  at  the  Benedictus  the  trom- 
bones played.  Fury  of  Costa  who  had  cut  them 
out.     Trombones  explain  that  there  is  no  cut. 

Costa:     "  Send  for  the  librarian." 

Enter  that  official,  trembling. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  parts  ^  " 

"  They  were  lent  to  the  Crystal  Palace  and  Mr. 
Manns  must  have  restored  them." 

"  You  are  dismissed !  "  and  he  was. 
It  is  only  fair  to  Costa  to  explain  that  subtraction 
was  not  his  whole  line  of  action;  sometimes  he 
added:  Sir  George  Grove  objected  to  Costa's 
tea-garden  big  drum  and  cymbals  in  Israel  m 
Egypt. 

H.  E.  Krehbiel  wrote  bitterly  about  one  of  the 
finest  conductors  we  have  had  in  New  York  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  he  added  a  flute  here  or 
suppressed  a  kettle-drum  there.  This  one-sided 
battle,  conducted  with  considerable  din,  would  have 
[209] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

been  amusing,  ridiculous  even,  but  for  the  sudden 
death  of  Gustav  Mahler,  which  gave  the  matter  a 
tragic  aspect,  somewhat  accentuated  by  an  article 
which  appeared  in  the  "  New  York  Tribune  "  on 
May  21,  1911.  Reread  this  paper  seems  funny 
but  at  the  time  it  almost  broke  up  homes.  Amus- 
ing indeed  is  Mr.  Krehbiel's  pompous  description 
of  the  eupeptic  auditors  of  the  Philharmonic  So- 
ciety: "He  (Mr.  Mahler)  never  discovered  that 
there  were  Philharmonic  subscribers  who  had  in- 
herited not  only  their  seats  from  their  parents  and 
grandparents,  but  also  their  appreciation  of  good 
music.  He  never  knew,  or  if  he  knew  he  was  never 
willing  to  acknowledge,  that  the  Philharmonic 
audience  would  be  as  quick  to  resent  an  outrage  on 
the  musical  classics  as  a  corruption  of  the  Bible  or 
Shakespeare."  This  was  an  unfortunate  compar- 
ison. Probably  Mr.  Krehbiel  himself  has  swal- 
lowed without  loss  of  appetite  Mr.  Daly's  corrup- 
tions, Mr.  Booth's  corruptions,  Madame  Mod- 
jeska's  corruptions.  Sir  Henry  Irving's  corrup- 
tions, and  Miss  Marlowe's  corruptions,  and  I 
would  be  willing  to  lay  an  even  bet  that  no  member 
of  the  Philharmonic  Society  has  ever  seen  a 
Shakespeare  play  performed  as  written  by  Shakes- 
peare. .  .  .  The  dean  gave  Mr.  Mahler  credit  for 
too  little  intelligence.  The  Bohemian  Jew  con- 
[210] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

ductor  probably  was  well  aware  of  the  fact  that 
many  of  the  grandparents  of  Philharmonic  sub- 
scribers had  assisted  at  the  burning  of  witches  and 
yet  he  would  have  been  the  last  to  advise  the  con- 
tinuance of  this  jolly  custom.  Striving  to  re- 
awaken interest  in  music  which  had  been  heard  so 
often,  so  badly  performed  that  it  was  received  with 
apathy,  he  introduced  changes,  perhaps  not 
always  well-advised,  but  never  careless,  never  for 
the  sake  of  saving  money,  and  never,  I  should  be 
willing  to  swear,  did  he  obscure  a  composer's  inten- 
tion. Rather  he  heightened  it.  Let  me  continue 
to  quote  Mr.  Krehbiel  to  show  how  far  dull 
pedantry  may  exercise  an  ancillary  function  to 
blind  obstinacy  of  opinion :  "  He  did  not  know 
that  he  was  doing  it,  or  if  he  did  he  was  willing 
wantonly  to  insult  their  intelligence  and  taste  by 
such  things  as  multiplying  the  voices  in  a  Bee- 
thoven symphony  (an  additional  kettle-drum  in  the 
Pastoral,^  for  instance),  by  cutting  down  the 
strings  and  doubling  the  flutes  in  Mozart's  G 
minor,^  by  fortifying  the  brass  in  Schubert's  C 
major  until  the  sweet  Vienna  singer  of  nearly  a 
century  ago  seemed  a  modern  Malay  running 
amuck,  and  —  most  monstrous  of  all  his  doings  — 

1  Fancy  that,  Hedda! 
20  Sugar! 

[211] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

starting  the  most  poetical  and  introspective  of 
Schumann's  overtures  —  that  to  Manfred  —  with 
a  cymbal  clash  like  that  which  sets  Mazeppa's 
horse  on  his  wild  gallop  in  Liszt's  symphonic  poem. 
And  who  can  ever  forget  the  treatment  of  the 
kettle  drums  which  he  demanded  of  his  players?  " 
Who,  indeed? 

Mr.  Krehbiel  gives  a  highly  flattering  picture 
of  the  lay  members  of  the  Philharmonic  Society. 
I  doubt  if  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  suffer  so 
keenly  as  he  imagines  when  the  classics  are  tam- 
pered with.  At  any  rate  tampering  did  not  begin 
with  Mahler,  nor  did  it  end  with  him,  and  I  would 
like  to  wager  that  I  could  introduce  radical 
changes  in  such  often  played  and  popular  works 
as  the  overture  to  Oheron,  Beethoven's  Eighth 
Symphony,  and  Mozart's  Jupiter  without  their  be- 
ing detected  by  more  than  seven  or  eight  persons 
in  an  average  Philharmonic  audience  (and  this  is 
putting  the  per  cent,  considerably  higher  than 
seems  justifiable),  including  the  lynx-eared  dean 
himself  who  once,  even  with  a  program  before  him, 
leveled  a  half-column  of  abuse  at  a  man  named 
ProkofiefF  for  having  composed  a  piece  which  the 
aforesaid  program  plainly  attributed  to  Vasi- 
lenko.^ 

1  The  curious  reader  may  find  a  complete  account  of  this 
[212] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

In  one  of  the  ''  golden  periods  "  of  opera  no 
respect  whatever  was  paid  to  the  composer. 
When,  for  example,  John  Ebers  was  manager  of 
the  King's  Theatre  in  London,  the  air,  Voi  che 
sapete  in  The  Marriage  of  Figaro,  was  sung  vari- 
ously by  the  Countess,  by  Susanna,  even  occasion- 
ally by  Cherubino,  for  whom  it  was  written.  It 
was  indeed  the  custom  at  this  period  for  singers  to 
do  as  they  liked  by  operas.  When  the  great 
Madame  Pasta  appeared  in  Coccia's  Maria  St'w- 
arda  "  scarcely  a  single  part  in  the  piece  escaped 
unchanged,"  writes  Ebers,  "  so  bent  were  the  per- 
formers on  introducing  additions  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  their  amour  propre."  When  De  Begnis 
made  his  London  debut  he  chose  II  Turco  in  Italia 
for  his  vehicle,  but  all  the  best  parts  of  La  Cene- 
rentola  were  forced  into  it. 

You  may  read,  also,  in  historical  tables  and  es- 
says, which  old  gentlemen  delight  in  preparing  for 
us,  of  the  character  of  the  numerous  operatic  per- 
formances that  took  place  in  New  York  in  the 
early  nineteenth  century,  admittedly  hodge- 
podges,  airs  from  this  and  from  that,  scenes  trans- 
posed or  omitted.  We  need  only  to  recall  Manuel 
Garcia's  celebrated  season  at  the  Park  Theatre 

contretemps  in  the  "Musical  Courier"  for  December  19, 
1918. 

[213] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

in  1825,  during  which  II  Barhiere  was  performed 
twenty-three  times.  Does  any  one  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  Rossini's  comedy  was  given  as  he 
wrote  it?  Certainly  not;  nor  were  the  other  op- 
eras of  this  season,  which  derives  its  magnificence 
from  the  presence  of  the  elder  Garcia  and  the 
young  Malibran  in  the  company.  Thereafter,  as 
before,  even  through  the  Mapleson  seasons  at  the 
Academy  of  Music,  operas  were  presented  with 
due  regard  for  the  caprices  of  prima  donnas, 
the  pocket-books  of  the  impressarii.  The  ignor- 
ance of  the  public  was  taken  for  granted.  Emma 
Abbott  interpolated  the  Lullaby  from  Erminie  in 
The  Mikado  and  Adelina  Patti  interpolated  Home 
Sweet  Home  in  any  opera  she  happened  to  be 
singing.  And  to  this  day  you  may  hear  Frieda 
Hempel  sing  Keep  the  home  fires  burning  some- 
where in  The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment. 

And  now  that  I  have  touched  on  Mme.  Hempel, 
running  my  mind  lightly  over  the  repertory  of 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  I  cannot  think  of  a 
single  opera  that  has  not  suffered  some  change  or 
other,  many  of  them  very  considerable,  and  al- 
most all  of  them  advantageous.  However  I  pre- 
fer to  hear  and  see  the  church  scene  in  Faust  given 
as  Gounod  wrote  it  after  the  death  of  Valentin, 
rather  than  before  as  it  is  in  our  theatre  and 
[214] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

almost  everywhere  else.  Valentin's  air,  Dio  Pos- 
sentCy  was  written  for  an  Italian  performance  of 
the  opera  in  London ;  it  is  never  sung  in  Paris,  but 
in  New  York  we  hear  it  and  as  the  opera  is  per- 
formed here  in  French  Dio  Possente  becomes  Avant 
de  quitter  ces  lieux.  It  was  formerly  the  custom, 
and  a  very  good  one,  too,  to  omit  the  ballet;  that 
has  been  restored  at  our  theatre,  but  one  of  Siebel's 
airs,  and  Marguerite's  spinning  song  'are  never 
heard.  Gluck  originally  wrote  Orfeo  for  a 
castrato  and  later  arranged  the  part  for  a  tenor. ^ 
In  the  newer  version  at  ihe  Paris  Opera,  the  prin- 
cipal singer,  with  the  consent  of  Gluck,  interpo- 
lated an  air  at  the  close  of  the  first  act.  This  air, 
until  recently,  has  been  attributed  to  a  contempo- 
rary composer  named  Bertoni,  and  has  been  held  in 
disfavour.  It  is  certainly  not  in  keeping  with  the 
rest  of  the  music  of  this  lyric  drama  but  Tiersot 
has  established  the  fact  that  it  is  an  air  Gluck 
plucked  from  one  of  his  own  early  operas.  How- 
ever that  may  be  it  remains  in  disfavour.  When 
Marie  Delna  sang  Orfeo  at  the  Metropolitan  she 
substituted  an  air  from  Echo  et  Narcisse;  Mrs. 
Homer's  custom  is  to  sing  the  grand  air  from 
Alceste,  which  has  the  disadvantage  of  releasing 
the  trombones  before  their  outburst  in  the  furious 

1  Now  the  part  is  sung  by  a  contralto. 
[215] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

scene  of  the  second  act.  In  Rossini's  II  Barbiere 
fate  played  a  considerable  part.  The  overture 
and  a  trio  were  lost ;  for  the  first  an  earlier  over- 
ture of  the  same  composer  serves ;  for  the  second 
sopranos  substitute,  during  the  "  lesson  scene  " 
whatever  air  or  airs  suit  their  voices.  Patti  and 
Sembrich,  indeed,  often  gave  little  concerts  at  this 
point  in  the  opera,  always  singing  three  or  four 
songs,  and  sometimes  seven  or  eight.  Lucia  was 
originally  considered  a  tenor  opera,  now  we  only 
think  of  it  in  relation  to  a  coloratura  soprano. 
As  a  result  the  last  act,  which  belongs  to  Edgardo, 
is  omitted  and  the  work  is  terminated  with  the 
mad  scene.  Les  Huguenots,  also,  is  similarly 
mutilated  on  occasion.  As  our  opera-goers  object 
to  arriving  at  the  theatre  at  six-thirty  or  seven  it 
has  become  necessary  to  cut  large  chunks  out  of 
the  Wagner  dramas.  Sometimes  we  are  given  the 
Norns  in  Gotterddmmerung,  sometimes  Waltraute, 
but  seldom  both  together.  Mr.  Bodanzky 
dropped  Alberich  out  of  this  drama.  I  attended 
his  next  performance  of  Parsifal,  hoping  to  find 
the  part  of  Gurnemanz  cut  out.  No  such  luck. 
If  you  examined  the  Wagnerian  scores  at  our 
opera  you  would  find  many  pages  pasted  together, 
many  lines  obliterated  with  the  pen.  These 
changes  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  made  rev- 
[216] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

erently  enough,  but  Sir  Charles  Villiers  Stanford 
tells  us  in  "  Pages  from  an  Unwritten  Diary  "  that 
when  Richter  took  the  baton  at  Her  Majesty's  in 
London  he  spent  hours  putting  the  parts  to  Lohen- 
grin aright.  The  hostile  apathy  of  Costa  had 
permitted  the  orchestra  to  play  from  parts  riddled 
with  hundreds  of  the  most  obvious  mistakes. 
When  Gluck's  Iphigenie  en  Tauride  was  produced 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  it  was  in  a  Ger- 
man version,  prepared  by  Richard  Strauss,  who 
had  even  composed  the  final  trio  with  which  the 
opera  ended.  But  the  three  most  striking  cases  of 
rewriting  at  present  on  view  at  the  Metropolitan 
are  Boris  Godunoff,  Oberon,  and  Le  Coq  d^or.^ 

1  Anything  into  which  the  human  element  enters  is  natu- 
rally uncertain.  Conductors  not  only  rewrite  and  cut  op- 
eras before  they  perform  them;  they  actually  rewrite  them 
during  performance.  It  has  been  the  custom  of  Tom  Bull 
at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  for  the  past  twenty-five 
years  to  hold  a  stop-watch  on  every  act.  He  has  a  complete 
and  valuable  record  of  the  exact  time  it  has  taken  each 
conductor  to  get  through  with  an  act  on  each  separate  occa- 
sion. Even  the  same  conductor  with  the  same  opera  varies 
somewhat  on  different  evenings.  The  first  night  Mr.  Po- 
lacco  conducted  Boris  he  finished  the  first  act  three  minutes 
later  than  Mr.  Toscanini.  There  is  also  a  record  in  Mr. 
Bull's  book  of  a  performance  of  Samson  et  Dalila  in  Phila- 
delphia which  was  over  twenty-five  minutes  earlier  than 
those  conducted  in  New  York  by  Mr.  Monteux.  No  extra 
cuts  had  been  made;  it  was  simply  a  matter  of  speedier 
conducting. 

In    this    connection    it    is   interesting   to    remember    that 

[217] 


Rewriting    of    Mast e r p i e c e s 

Besides  writing  sixteen  operas  of  his  own  Rim- 
sky-KorsakofF  orchestrated  The  Stone  Guest,  left 
unfinished  by  the  death  of  Dargomij  ski,  and  with 

George  Henschel  once  wrote  to  ask  Brahms  if  the  metro- 
nome marks  at  the  head  of  the  several  movements  of  the 
Requiem  should  be  strictly  adhered  to.  "Well  —  just  as 
with  all  other  music,"  answered  Brahms.  *'  I  think  here 
as  well  as  with  other  music  the  metronome  is  of  no  value. 
As  far  at  least  as  my  experience  goes,  everybody  has, 
sooner  or  later,  withdrawn  his  metronome  marks.  Those 
which  can  be  found  in  my  works  —  good  friends  have  talked 
me  into  putting  them  there,  for  I  myself  have  never  be- 
lieved that  my  blood  and  a  mechanical  instrument  go  well 
together.  The  so-called  'elastic'  tempo  is  moreover  not  a 
new  invention.  'Con  discrezione'  should  be  added  to  that 
as  to  many  other  things." 

Singers,  too,  make  many  arbitrary  changes  in  scores, 
sometimes  because  a  note  is  too  high,  sometimes  because  it 
is  not  high  enough,  sometimes  for  the  same  reason  which 
led  Rubinstein  occasionally  to  startle  academic  hearers  with 
cascades  of  false  notes,  because  their  memories  fail  them. 
Brahms  may  be  quoted  on  this  subject  also.  Because  he 
had  a  severe  cold  and  dreaded  a  certain  high  F,  George 
Henschel  wrote  the  composer  asking  if  he  would  object 
if  the  singer  substituted  for  that  note  another  more  con- 
venient one.  "  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Brahms.  "  As  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  a  thinking,  sensible  singer  may,  without 
hesitation,  change  a  note  which  for  some  reason  or  other 
is  for  the  time  being  out  of  his  compass,  into  one  which 
he  can  reach  with  comfort,  prornded  always  the  declama- 
tion remains  correct  and  the  accentuation  does  not  suffer." 
Certain  changes  of  this  nature  have  been  made  so  frequently 
in  certain  opera  airs  that  they  have  become  traditional. 
It  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  an  ignorant  critic  to  severely 
condemn  a  singer  for  restoring  the  original,  but  infre- 
quently heard,  text. 

[218] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

the  assistance  of  GlazunofF  he  completed  Prmce 
Igor.  Borodine  had  not  written  a  note  of  the 
overture  to  this  work  biit  Glazunoff  had  heard  him 
play  it  on  the  piano  so  often  that  he  reconstructed 
it  from  memory.  Another  friend  of  Rimsky-Kor- 
sakofF,  Moussorgsky,  left  La  Khov  ant  china  incom- 
plete at  his  death.  Rimsky  orchestrated  this 
opera  and  the  last  pages  he  wrote  himself.  He 
made  several  excisions,  which  later  were  restored 
in  a  version  prepared  by  Stravinsky  and  Ravel. 
In  regard  to  this  Mr.  Calvocoressi  says,  "  We  can 
see,  thanks  to  the  work  of  Ravel  and  Stravinsky, 
that  the  score  (pubhshed  by  Rimsky-Korsakoff  in 
1883)  was  little  better  than  a  libel.  Rimsky- 
KorsakofF  erred  in  all  good  faith.  .  .  .  Mous- 
sorgsky believed  anything  resembling  formalism  to 
be  fatal  to  art ;  he  was  as  convinced  that  Rimsky- 
KorsakofTs  idioms  and  methods  were  superflu- 
ously stiffs  and  conventional  as  Rimsky-KorsakofF 
was  convinced  that  Boris  Godunoff  and  La  Kho~ 
vantchina  were  uncouth  and  crude." 

Rimsky-Korsakoff*  called  this  doing  his  duty 
and  he  meant  only  for  the  best.  He  also  consid- 
ered it  his  duty  to  rewrite  Boris  Godunoff  and 
since  that  work  has  been  performed  extensively  in 
the  singing  theatres  of  Europe  and  America  a  con- 
stant buzz  of  discussion  regarding  this  version  of 
[219] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

the  work  has  simmered  in  the  critical  kettle.  In  a 
conversation  with  V.  Yastrebtsieff,  which  the  lat- 
ter published  in  the  Moscow  weekly  "  Musica," 
June  22,  191^,  Rimsky-Korsakoff  said,  "  I  orig- 
inally intended  writing  a  purely  critical  article  on 
the  merits  and  demerits  of  Boris  Godunoff  but  a 
new  revised  pianoforte  score  and  a  new  orchestral 
score  will  be  a  more  eloquent  testimony  to  future 
generations  of  my  views  of  this  work,  not  only  as 
a  whole,  but  as  regards  the  details  of  every  bar; 
the  more  so,  because  in  this  transcription  of  the 
opera  for  orchestra,  personality  is  not  concerned, 
and  I  am  only  doing  what  Moussorgsky  himself 
ought  to  have  done,  but  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand how  to  carry  out,  simply  because  of  his  lack 
of  technique  as  a  composer.  I  maintain  that  in 
my  intention  to  reharmonize  and  reorchestrate 
this  great  opera  of  Moussorgsky  there  is  certainly 
nothing  for  which  I  can  be  blamed;  in  any  case  I 
impute  no  sins  to  myself.  .  .  .  Only  when  I  have 
revised  the  whole  of  Moussorgsky's  works  shall  I 
begin  to  be  at  peace  and  feel  that  my  conscience 
is  clear ;  for  then  I  shall  have  done  all  that  can  and 
ought  to  be  done  for  his  compositions  and  his 
memory." 

Boris   was    successfully    produced   at   the    St. 
Petersburg  Opera,  January  24,  1874?,  but  Mous- 
[220] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

sorgsky  had  been  working  on  it  for  several  years 
and  had  made  many  changes,  thanks  to  the  advice 
of  friends.  The  two  Polish  scenes,  with  the  char- 
acter of  Marina  had  been  added,  and  the  scenes  in 
the  inn  and  in  the  Czar's  palace  had  been  much  ex- 
panded. However  the  opera  did  not  hold  its  place 
in  the  repertory  although  it  was  occasionally  re- 
vived, and  was  not  performed  outside  of  Russia. 
In  1896  Rimsky-Korsakoff's  version  appeared. 
Since  then  none  other  has  been  heard,  or  seen  for 
that  matter.  Moussorgsky's  original  score  seems 
to  have  been  supplanted  and  it  is  impossible  to  be 
certain  whether  the  composer  of  Scheherazade  did 
well  or  ill  by  him.  Montagu-Nathan  admits  that 
Rimsky  seems  to  have  "  toned  down  a  good  many 
musical  features  which  would  have  won  acceptance 
today  as  having  been  extraordinarily  prophetic." 
Stassov  was  opposed  to  the  alterations.  "  While 
admitting  Moussorgsky's  technical  limitations," 
writes  Rosa  Newmarch,  "  and  his  tendency  to  be 
slovenly  in  workmanship,  he  thought  it  might  be 
better  for  the  world  to  see  this  original  and  in- 
spired composer  with  all  his  faults  ruthlessly  ex- 
posed to  view  than  clothed  in  his  right  mind  with 
the  assistance  of  Rimsky-KorsakofF.  .  .  .  We  who 
loved  Moussorgsky's  music  in  spite  of  its  apparent 
dishevelment  may  not  unnaturally  resent  Rimsky- 
[221] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

Korsakoff's  conscientious  grooming  of  it.  But 
when  it  actually  came  to  the  question  of  producing 
the  operas,  even  Stassov,  I  am  sure,  realized  the 
need  for  practical  revisions,  without  which  Mous- 
sorgsky's  original  scores,  with  all  their  potential 
greatness,  ran  considerable  risk  of  becoming  mere 
archaeological  curiosities."  Arthur  Pougin  falls 
in  with  this  theory,  "  In  reality  the  music  of  Mous- 
sorgsky  only  became  possible  when  a  friendly  ex- 
perienced hand  had  taken  the  trouble  to  look  it 
over  and  carefully  correct  it."  James  Huneker 
writes :  "  Moussorgsky  would  not  study  the  ele- 
ments of  orchestration  and  one  of  the  penalties  he 
paid  was  that  his  friend,  Rimsky-Korsakoff, 
'  edited '  Boris  Godunoff  (in  1896  a  new  edition 
appeared  with  changes,  purely  practical,  as  Calvo- 
coressi  notes,  but  the  orchestration,  clumsy  as  it 
is,  largely  remains  the  work  of  the  composer)  and 
La  Khovantchi/na  was  scored  by  Rimsky-Korsa- 
koff, and  no  doubt  *  edited,'  that  is  revised,  what 
picture  experts  call  '  restored.' "  Calvocoressi 
contents  himself  with  this  laconic  statement :  "  In 
1896  a  new  edition  of  Boris  Godunoff  appeared, 
revised  by  M.  Rimsky-Korsakoff.  Certain  of  the 
changes  that  one  remarks  in  this  have  a  purely 
practical  end,  which  is  to  facilitate  the  execution ; 
others  are  only  motived  by  the  desire  to  take  away 
[222] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

from  the  isolated  aspect  of  the  work,  to  render  it 
less  disconcerting  to  the  public."  But  Jean  Mar- 
nold  (in  "  Musique  d'autrefois  et  d'aujourd'hui  ") 
screams  with  rage:  "He  (Rimsky-KorsakofF) 
changes  the  order  of  the  two  last  tableaux,  thus 
denaturing,  at  its  conclusion  the  expressly  popular 
essence  and  the  psychology  of  the  drama.  The 
scene  of  Boris  with  his  children  is  especially  mu- 
tilated. Rimsky-KorsakofF  cuts,  at  his  happiness, 
one,  two,  or  three  measures,  as  serenely  as  he  cuts 
fifteen  or  twenty.  At  will  he  transposes  a  tone,  a 
half  tone,  makes  sharps  or  flats  natural,  alters 
modulations.  He  even  corrects  the  harmony. 
During  the  tableau  in  the  cell  of  Pimen  the  liturgi- 
cal Dorian  mode  is  adulterated  by  a  banal  D 
minor.  The  interval  of  the  augmented  fifth  (a 
favourite  device  of  Moussorgsky)  is  frequently  the 
object  of  his  equilateral  ostracism.  He  has  no 
more  respect  for  traditional  harmony.  Nearly 
every  instant  Rimsky-Korsakoff*  changes  some- 
thing for  the  unique  reason  that  it  is  his  pleasure 
to  do  so.  From  one  end  of  the  work  to  the  other 
he  planes,  files,  polishes,  pulls  together,  retouches, 
embellishes,  makes  insipid,  or  corrupts.  Har- 
mony, melody,  modulation,  tonality,  all  inspire  him 
to  make  changes.  In  comparing  the  two  scores 
one   can   hardly  believe   one's  eyes.     In   the  258 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

pages  of  that  of  Rimsky-KorsakofF  there  are  per- 
haps not  twenty  which  conform  to  the  original 
text." 

Whether  or  no  Rimsky-Korsakoff  spoiled  his 
friend's  opera  I  have  no  personal  means  of  deter- 
mining. Original  scores  of  Boris  do  not,  so  far 
as  I  am  aware,  exist  in  New  York.  They  do  not 
abound  anywhere.  It  may,  however,  be  offered  in 
extenuation  of  Rimsky-Korsakoff's  act  that  his 
version  has  consistently  held  the  stage  and  has 
made  a  tremendous  effect  wherever  it  has  been  pre- 
sented. The  original  work  may  or  may  not  have 
surpassed  its  successor  but,  at  any  rate,  Boris  as 
it  now  stands,  is  one  of  the  most  solid,  one  of  the 
most  striking,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  works  in 
the  operatic  repertory. 

The  case  of  Oheron  is  another  thing  altogether. 
Regarding  with  greedy  eyes  the  success  of  Der 
Freischiitz  in  London,  the  Director  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre  sought  a  new  work  from  Weber. 
The  composer,  near  death  and  anxious  to  provide 
for  the  future  of  his  family,  consented  to  set  an 
English  book  to  music.  Two  subjects  were  of- 
fered him,  Faust  and  Oberon.  He  chose  the  lat- 
ter, and  J.  R.  Planche  prepared  the  book,  sending 
scenes  on  to  Weber  from  time  to  time,  who  went  to 
the  trouble  of  learning  English  so  that  he  might 
[224] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

the  better  understand  what  he  was  writing  music 
for.  It  was  felt  that  too  great  a  strain  must  not 
be  put  on  the  appreciatory  powers  of  a  Covent 
Garden  audience.  Other  difficulties  presented 
themselves.  The  singers  in  this  theatre  could  not 
act,  the  actors  could  not  sing.  As  a  result 
Planche  prepared  a  strange  opera  book,  with 
plenty  of  opportunity  for  a  spectacular  scene 
painter  (there  were  something  like  twenty-one 
scenes  in  the  original  version),  in  which  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  spoken  dialogue,  much  of  it  spoken 
by  characters  who  never  sang  a  note!  Weber 
with  true  fatidical  spirit  wrote  to  Planche,  "  The 
intermixing  of  so  many  principal  actors  who  do 
not  sing,  the  omission  of  the  music  in  the  most 
important  moments  —  all  deprive  our  Oheron  of 
the  title  of  an  opera,  and  will  make  him  unfit  for 
all  other  theatres  in  Europe."  Nevertheless, 
deeply  inspired  by  the  subject,  Weber  completed 
the  work,  intending  to  rewrite  it  for  a  broader 
public  later.  But  Oheron  was  produced  in  April, 
1826,  and  Weber  died  in  London  in  June  of  that 
year,  before  he  had  time  to  carry  out  his  inten- 
tion. 

There  the  matter  stood.     Weber  had  composed 
one  of  his  finest  —  I  may  say  that  I  consider  it 
by  far  his  finest  —  operas  in  a  form  which  made  it 
[225] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

simply  unpresentable  under  any  but  the  original 
circumstances.  Since  that  day  it  has  seldom,  if 
ever,  been  performed  as  written.  Huon's  first  air 
proved  unsuitable  to  the  voice  of  Braham,  the 
tenor  who  created  the  role,  and  Weber  wrote  a  new 
air.  In  the  early  German  performances  the  orig- 
inal air  was  substituted,  and  soon  music  for  the 
recitatives  was  provided.  Berlioz  heard  Schroe- 
der-Devrient  sing  Rezia  in  a  performance  of  Ob- 
eron  in  Paris  four  years  after  the  London  produc- 
tion. The  Theatre-Lyrique,  under  Carvalho, 
mounted  the  work  in  1857.  Sir  Julius  Benedict 
prepared  an  Italian  version,  adding  certain  airs 
from  Euryanthe,  cutting  much  of  the  original 
play,  and  providing  music  for  the  recitatives,  for 
London  in  1860.  Wullner,  Josef  Schlaar,  and 
Gustav  Mahler  are  others  who  have  arranged  the 
work  for  practical  operatic  production.  Mahler's 
version  was  heard  at  Cologne  and  when  he  was  in 
New  York  he  vainly  urged  Heinrich  Conried  to 
produce  it  at  the  Metropolitan.  Up  to  1918, 
however,  no  version  had  been  regarded  as  defini- 
tive, unless  it  might  be  that  of  Sir  Julius  Benedict, 
which  has  many  disadvantages.  However  in  Eng- 
land and  America  in  the  mid-Victorian  period 
Oheron  was  a  favourite  opera.  Tietjens  sang 
Rezia  and  Alboni  sang  Fatima ;  later  Pappenheim 
[226] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

and  Parepa-Rosa  sang  Rezia  (often  spelled 
Reiza)  and  Trebelli  sang  Fatima.  The  work, 
however,  had  never  been  heard  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House,  until  Arthur  Bodanzky  prepared 
his  version.  There  were  probably  many  excellent 
reasons  for  this  delay  aside  from  the  lack  of  a 
definitive  version,  if  any  such  lack  were  felt.  The 
opera  calls  for  a  great  number  of  elaborate 
scenes,  including  the  representation  of  a  storm  on 
a  rocky  coast,  fairy  festivals,  and  caliph's 
banquets.  Obviously  expense  is  involved.  Then 
the  music  demands,  for  its  correct  interpretation, 
not  only  voices  of  great  range,  but  consummate 
art.  The  part  of  Rezia  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
many  a  dramatic  soprano,  and  tenors  might  sing 
Edgardo,  Radames,  Canio,  and  Rodolfo  all  their 
lives  without  being  able  to  get  through  the  first  air 
of  Huon. 

Mr.  Bodanzky  rearranged  the  text  in  nine 
scenes,  omitting  several  of  the  characters  whose 
dialogue  was  spoken,  and  providing  music  for  the 
others.  This  music  is  in  every  instance  provided 
from  themes  found  in  the  work  itself.  The  final 
chorus,  for  example,  is  arranged  from  the  tenor 
air  which  Weber  was  obliged  to  write  for  Huon. 
The  result  may  be  regarded  as  generally  admirable 
for  Mr.  Bodanzky's  work  has  the  effect  of  knitting 
[227] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

together  the  very  lovely  music  of  the  piece.  As- 
suredly Oberon  has  the  ardency  of  true  beauty. 
The  overture  and  Rezia's  grand  air  are  familiar  in 
the  concert  room,  but  how  much  more  effect  both 
make  in  the  opera  house !  For  Oceans  thou  mighty 
monster  scenic  embellishment  is  more  necessary 
than  for  the  final  scene  of  Die  Walkiire.  And  the 
overture,  with  its  foreshadowing  of  the  fairy  mu- 
sic, Huon's  chivalric  air,  and  the  quartet.  Over  the 
dark  blue  waters^  comes  back  to  memory  with  re- 
newed force  and  meaning  after  the  fall  of  the  last 
curtain.  Indeed  I  like  Oberon  almost  as  much  as 
the  operas  of  Gluck  and  Mozart  and  a  good  deal 
better  than  the  lyric  dramas  of  Richard  Wagner. 

The  third  rewritten  opera  in  the  repertory  of 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  is  given  in  its  new 
form  in  direct  opposition  to  the  intentions  of  the 
composer  and  against  the  protests  of  the  com- 
poser's widow.  It  is  amusing  to  recall  that  the 
composer  is  Rimsky-KorsakofF  and  that  after  his 
death  he  has  been  served  as  he  served  others.^ 
In  this  instance,  however,  the  music  and  the  book 
escape  revision.  The  alteration  concerns  solely 
the  manner  of  interpretation. 

1  This  is  the  second  instance.  Scheherazade  was  not  writ- 
ten as  a  ballet  and  the  composer's  program  for  this  music 
differs  in  every  respect  from  that  of  Fokine. 

[228] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

Rimsky-KorsakofF  completed  The  Golden  Cock- 
erel (given  in  New  York  in  its  French  form  as  Le 
Coq  d'Or)  in  1907.  The  censor  refused  to  sanc- 
tion its  production  and  it  therefore  did  not  reach 
the  stage  before  the  composer's  death  in  1908. 
Later,  however,  it  was  performed  with  success  in 
Russia.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  quaintest  and  most 
beautiful  of  Rimsky-Korsakoff's  many  operas. 
Sometime  before  the  summer  of  1914  Serge  de 
Diaghileff,  the  director  of  the  Russian  Ballet, 
searching  for  novelties  suitable  for  production  by 
that  organization  in  London  and  Paris,  hit  upon 
this  work,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  Fokine,  upon 
a  novel  presentation  of  it.  This  was  a  perform- 
ance involving  two  casts,  one  to  sing  and  the  other 
to  act  (if  this  idea  had  occurred  to  Planche  all 
the  original  difficulties  in  regard  to  Oheron  might 
have  been  brushed  aside).  The  singing  cast,  to- 
gether with  the  chorus,  was  arranged  in  uniforms 
on  two  tiers  of  benches  on  either  side  of  the  stage, 
leaving  the  centre  of  the  stage  free  for  the  ballet 
to  enact  the  play.^     Consequently,  after  a  first 

1  This  idea  does  not  seem  to  have  been  entirely  new.  In 
Lumley's  "  Reminiscences  of  the  Opera "  I  find  the  follow- 
ing: "On  the  English  stage,  where  the  double  qualities  of 
acting  and  singing  were  in  those  days  not  to  be  found  com- 
bined in  one  person,  a  tenor-lover  was  introduced  to  sing 
the  music  of  Gustavus  (in  Auber's  Oustave  III),  whilst  the 

[229] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

gasp  of  amazement  the  spectators  soon  accepted 
the  singers  as  part  of  the  decoration  and  followed 
with  glee  the  history  of  the  silly  King  Dodon  and 
the  amazingly  naughty  and  mysterious  Queen  of 
Shemakahn.  The  fairy  story  lends  itself  well  to 
this  manner  of  treatment,  the  work  was  mounted 
in  the  most  fantastic  and  absurd  manner,  and  the 
result  was  a  success  which  surpassed  all  expecta- 
tions. Looking  for  novelties  for  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  for  the  season  of  1917-18  Mr.  Gatti- 
Casazza  hit  upon  The  Golden  Cockerel,  which  was 
produced  with  the  aid  of  Adolf  Bolm,  the  London 
King  Dodon,  as  nearly  as  possible  after  the  man- 
ner of  Fokine.  The  result  astonished  and  enter- 
tained nearly  everybody,  except  a  few  old  fogies 
who  seemed  to  feel  that  entertainment  in  an  opera 
house  was  sacrilege. 

These    three    operas,    indeed,    Boris    Godunoff, 
Oberon,  and  The  Golden  Cockerel,  are  assuredly 

part  itself  was  acted  by  Mr.  Warde,  a  tragedian  of  consid- 
erable merit.  A  similar  arrangement  of  an  operatic  work 
had  long  before  distinguished  the  English  version  of  The 
Barber  of  Seville,  in  which  the  part  of  Almaviva  was 
enacted  by  a  light  comedian,  whilst  an  additional  character, 
one  Fiorello,  sang  Rossini's  music  of  the  part."  One  may 
go  still  further  back.  In  Orazio  Vecchi's  Amfiparnaso,  an 
attempt  to  turn  the  Commedia  delVArte  into  lyric  drama, 
produced  at  Modena  in  1594,  the  music  was  sung  by  five 
singers  behind  the  scenes,  while  the  action  and  speech  of  the 
actors  on  the  stage  was  synchronized  with  the  music. 
[230] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

the  most  delightful  works  in  the  current  (1918- 
19)  repertory  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House. 
I  should  be  the  last  to  point  the  moral  herein  indi- 
cated. There  may,  indeed,  be  some  operas  which 
do  not  need  rewriting.  The  fact  remains  that  the 
creative  power  and  a  sense  of  the  stage  do  not 
often  go  together.  As  Sir  Charles  Villiers  Stan- 
ford so  justly  remarks,  it  is  a  mistake  to  prolong 
the  Elijah  after  the  ascent  of  the  fiery  chariot. 
**  When  a  piece  is  over  it  is  over."  This  is  a  lesson 
Wagner  never  learned.  His  motto  seems  to  have 
been,  When  a  piece  is  over  it  is  just  beginning. 
Will  some  one,  I  wonder,  have  the  courage  to  lop 
King  Mark's  speech  off  the  end  of  the  second  act 
of  Tristan? 

But  while  we  are  rewriting  masterpieces  why 
not  go  into  the  matter  with  thoroughness.  Why 
not  engage  J.  M.  Barrie  to  write  a  new  book  for 
The  Magic  Flute?  Why  not  engage  Mr.  Belasco 
to  cut  and  contrive  and  comb  a  single  opera  out 
of  Mefistofele  and  Gioconda?  The  idea  is  fasci- 
nating. I  should  delight  in  doing  a  little  snipping 
and  rearranging  myself.  I  have  a  fancy,  for  in- 
stance, for  playing  II  Trovatore  backwards. 
Something  like  this : 

The  opera  opens  with  the  scene  of  the  prison 
into  which  the  wicked  count  has  thrown  the  gipsy 
[231] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

Azucena.  She  and  Manrico  sing  the  duet,  Si  la 
stanchezza,  after  which  Manrico  obliges  with  Di 
quella  pira.  Leonora  enters  and  vainly  pleads 
with  the  Count  to  spare  Manrico  but  that  one,  be- 
ing a  baritone  and  jealous  of  the  tenor's  high  C, 
orders  him  to  be  put  to  death  at  once.  The  audi- 
ence, taking  into  account  the  way  Di  quella  pira  is 
usually  sung,  will  be  properly  grateful,  but  the 
horrified  Azucena  informs  the  Count  that  he  has 
murdered  his  own  brother.  Here  the  scene 
changes  and  Leonora  sings  the  Miserere^  aided  by 
Manrico,  now  happily  in  heaven,  but  whose  spirit 
obligingly  appears  in  the  tower. 

The  second  act  opens  in  the  camp.  Azucena, 
dragged  in,  sings  her  plaintive  lament  for  Man- 
rico, and  Leonora,  stricken  with  grief,  immures 
herself  in  a  convent.  She  is  carried  away  by  the 
count,  who  also  learns  that  Azucena  has  lied  about 
the  burned  Manrico,  who  was  her  own  son  and 
not  his  brother.  The  act  ends  with  the  anvil 
chorus  in  which  all  the  principals  ecstatically  join. 

In  the  third  act  Leonora,  hearing  singing  in 
the  garden  of  the  Count's  palace  and  in  her  mad- 
ness fancying  the  voice  that  of  her  dead  Manrico, 
ventures  out  into  the  moonlight.  The  voice,  how- 
ever, proves  to  be  that  of  the  Count  di  Luna,  but 
Leonora  has  reached  a  state  of  indifference  and 
[232] 


Rewriting    of    Masterpieces 

falls  into  his  arms  in  a  magnificent  state  of  bra- 
vura while  the  Count  delightedly  comes  to  her  aid 
with  some  of  Manrico's  music  transposed  into  as 
comfortable  a  key  as  possible. 

Other  ideas  present  themselves.  The  example 
of  Le  Coq  d*Or  should  make  it  possible  to  continue 
indefinitely  the  enormous  vogue  of  Madame  Far- 
rar,  who  might  act  her  roles  unrestrained  while 
somebody  else  sings  them.  .  .  .  And  if  any  more 
American  works  are  to  be  given  at  this  house 
might  I  suggest  that  Mr.  Irving  Berlin  be  called 
in  to  rewrite  them? 

January  1,  1919. 


[233] 


Oscar   Hammerstein :     An   Epitaph 

'*  There  are  two  ways  of  not  keeping  on  a  level  with 
the  times.  A  man  may  he  below  it;  or  he  may  he 
ahove  it.'* 

Arthur  Schopenhauer. 


Oscar  Hammerstein:  An 
Epitaph 


SOME  years  ago,  passing  by  the  northwest 
corner  of  Forty-second  Street  and  Seventh 
Avenue,  I  observed  a  short  stubby  figure  of 
a  man  with  a  thin  greyish  Mephistophelan  and 
slightly  rakish  beard  lounging  under  the  lintel  of 
one  of  the  doorways  of  the  old  Victoria  Theatre. 
He  wore  a  morning  coat  and  grey  trousers  and 
large  soft-leather  shoes.  His  toes  were  turned  out 
at  a  wide  angle.  His  linen  was  immaculate.  On 
his  head  reposed  a  very  French  top  hat  and  in  his 
mouth,  which  frequently  assumed  a  quizzical  ex- 
pression, was  a  large  black  cigar.  The  eccentric- 
ity of  the  figure  was  apparent  at  first  glance,  but 
magnetism  and  a  certain  Napoleonic  magnificence 
raced  in  as  second  impressions.  It  was  my  first 
week  in  New  York  and  I  was  curious;  I  asked 
another  newspaper  man  for  a  label. 

"  That,"  rephed  my  friend  in  his  most  fatidical 
manner,  "  that  is  Oscar  Hammerstein." 

[237] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 


II 


It  was  the  autumn  of  1906  and  I  was  a  reporter 
on  the  "  New  York  Times  " ;  he  was  just  opening 
his  new  Manhattan  Opera  House.  Later  in  the 
round  of  my  duties  I  approached  him  and  as  was 
his  wont  he  almost  at  once  familiarly  addressed 
me  as  "  Mike."  People  he  liked  were  sometimes 
Mike.  People  he  didn't  like  he  didn't  talk  to  and 
they  were  often  pilloried  on  his  coarsest  wit  in  a 
manner  not  reportable.  He  motioned  me  to  fol- 
low him  and  I  did  so.  I  had  heard  of  Mr.  Belas- 
co's  magnificent  apartment,  laden  with  spoils  of 
the  Ming  period,  tables  upon  which  Marie  An- 
toinette had  written  letters  to  the  Chevalier  Gluck, 
fans  which  had  brushed  the  ether  across  the  face 
of  Lola  Montes,  mantel-pieces  which  had  formerly 
belonged  to  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans,  and  footstools 
upon  which  the  Abate  Metastasio  had  sat  at  the 
feet  of  La  Romanina.  Perhaps  I  expected  this 
other  great  man  of  the  theatre,  of  whom  I  had 
heard  so  much,  to  be  similarly  installed. 

We  walked  through  the  old  Victoria  Theatre, 

gilded,  but  shabby,  dusty,  and  dingy,  and  always 

crowded.     The    smoke    of    countless    cigars    and 

cigarettes  obscured  the  atmosphere.     On  the  stage 

[238] 


Oscar    H  ammerstein 

it  is  possible  that  acrobats  were  tumbling,  perhaps 
the  Brothers  Bard,  whose  rhythmical  feats  always 
awakened  wonder  and  admiration  in  me,  or  it  is 
possible  that  Bert  Williams  was  telling  his  cat 
story.  You  remember  how  the  Negro  bishop 
forced  to  put  up  for  the  night  alone  in  a  haunted 
house,  sitting  before  the  fire  was  visited  by  pussies, 
first  a  tiny  tabby,  then  a  large  maltese,  then  a 
full-sized  feline,  then  a  gigantic  bristling  T^om, 
then  a  cat  as  big  as  a  leopard,  then  a  cat  as  big 
as  a  lion.  And  always  each  new  visitor  seated 
itself  next  to  the  last  with  the  same  remark,  "  We 
can't  do  nothin'  till  Martin  gets  here."  The 
point  of  the  story,  of  course,  was  that  the  bishop 
decided  not  to  wait  for  Martin.  However,  I  did 
not  look  at  the  stage  on  this  occasion  but  followed 
the  short  figure,  walking,  as  I  remember  him,  al- 
ways with  his  toes  very  far  out,  flat-footed,  and 
with  rather  short  steps  —  he  must  have  been 
nearly  sixty  at  the  time  —  up  the  sordid  marble 
staircase  of  this  temple  of  varieties.  He  paused 
for  breath  at  the  balcony  landing  and  then  took  a 
wide  detour  round  past  the  boxes,  and  went  on 
through  a  doorway  into  a  little  room.  Here  he 
again  paused,  sat  down,  and  motioning  me  to  an- 
other chair,  began  to  talk  at  once  about  his  new 
operatic  venture. 

[239] 


Oscar    H  ammerstein 

The  room  was  a  little  larger  than  a  hall  bed- 
room in  a  New  York  boarding  house.  The  paper 
on  the  walls  was  soiled  and  torn ;  a  window  looked 
into  a  dismal  courtyard.  There  were  no  pictures 
on  the  walls  but  there  may  have  been  calendars  or 
maps.  There  was  a  desk,  littered  with  papers  and 
books  and  boxes  of  cigars  and  ends  of  cigars. 
There  was  a  year's  dust  spread  all  over  this  con- 
geries, save  for  a  square  where  Oscar  evidently 
did  his  work.  There  was  a  grand  piano,  piled 
with  music,  music-paper,  scores,  more  boxes  of 
cigars,  more  books,  more  letters,  more  cigar  ends, 
and  more  dust.  The  piano  was  open  and  the  rack 
contained  a  sheet  of  music-paper  upon  which  a 
few  hieroglyphics  had  been  scribbled.  There 
were  two  or  three  ordinary  office  chairs  and  one 
arm  chair  with  broken  arms  and  the  upholstery 
losing  its  stuffing.  The  floor  was  heaped  with 
boxes,  letters,  manuscripts,  books,  and  music. 
Through  an  archway  I  perceived  another  room,  a 
brass  bed,  the  sheets  in  disorder,  a  bureau.  No- 
where order,  nowhere  cleanliness,  except  in  Mr. 
Hammerstein's  person  which  was  immaculate.  It 
was  apparent  that  the  man  allowed  no  menials  to 
disturb  in  any  way  the  plan  of  his  domain,  fearing, 
no  doubt,  the  accidental  destruction  of  some  choice 
bit  of  information  which  he  had  carefully  stowed 
[240] 


Oscar    Hammerstein 

away  in  the  coal  scuttle  or  flung  with  memory  into 
some  corner.  Here  Oscar  Hammerstein  did  all  his 
work  and,  at  this  time,  lived.  Here  he  received 
visitors,  social  and  on  business.  When  the  Man- 
hattan Opera  House  was  built  his  sons  prepared 
for  him  there  a  series  of  magnificent  rooms  fur- 
nished with  gilded  chairs  and  tables,  ormolu 
clocks,  bronze  andirons,  Tudor  trousseau  chests, 
and  Carrara  marbles.  Certain  hours  in  the  morn- 
ings Oscar  consented  to  use  these  rooms.  He  held 
conferences  with  Campanini  on  these  red  carpets 
and  he  sometimes  signed  contracts  with  singers 
there,  but  the  room  in  the  Victoria  remained  his 
home.  He  said  that  at  night,  when  he  couldn't 
sleep  (and  he  seldom  did  sleep  more  than  four 
hours  during  the  twenty- four),  he  could  go  out 
on  the  fire-escape  and  watch  the  busiest  comer 
in  New  York.  He  was  lonesome  on  Thirty-fourth 
Street  and  the  place  was  too  clean  and  fussy. 
When,  some  years  later,  the  old  Victoria  was  prac- 
tically demolished  to  make  the  new  Rialto,  Oscar 
clung  to  his  nest  as  long  as  he  could,  although  at 
this  time  he  was  living  with  his  third  wife  in  an 
uptown  apartment  and  only  used  the  place  as  an 
office.  He  was  finally  ejected,  I  think,  by  a  sher- 
iff^'s  order,  at  a  time  when  nothing  but  the  sky 
covered  his  head  and  his  walls  hung  over  a  preci- 
[24.1] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

pice.  Remembering  all  the  conversations,  amus- 
ing and  otherwise,  I  have  had  in  that  little  room 
with  him  who  was  always  known  as  the  "  old  man  " 
I  can  only  say  that  there  is  a  certain  pain  in  my 
heart  when  I  think  that  those  days  are  no  more 
and  can  never  return  again. 


Ill 


Oscar  Hammerstein  built  the  Harlem  Opera 
House,  the  Harlem  Music  Hall,  the  Columbus  The- 
atre, the  first  Manhattan  Opera  House,  which 
stood  where  Macy's  Department  store  now  stands, 
the  Olympic  (the  block  of  theatres  now  comprising 
the  New  York  and  the  Criterion),  the  Victoria,  the 
Republic,  the  Harris,  the  second  and  more  familiar 
Manhattan  Opera  House,  the  Philadelphia  Opera 
House,  the  London  Opera  House,  the  Lexington 
Avenue  Opera  House,  and  probably  three  or  four 
more  theatres  that  I  have  forgotten.  He  discov- 
ered Harlem;  he  discovered  Forty-second  Street. 
The  newspaper  wits  of  the  day  called  the  Olympia 
"  Hammerstein's  Folly."  Longacre  Square,  now 
the  centre  of  the  theatre  district,  was  then 
quaintly  restful,  "  uptown."  He  ran  this  theatre 
as  a  continental  music  hall  and  even  introduced 
the  promenade  as  a  daring  feature  in  imitation  of 


Oscar    Hammerstein 

a  similar  feature  in  the  London  and  Paris  halls. 
He  had  arrived  in  America  in  the  seventies  a  penni- 
less immigrant  and  it  was  through  his  ingenuity  in 
inventing  machinery  which  eventually  revolution- 
ized the  cigarmaking  industry  that  he  made  his 
money.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  he  is  in  a  meas- 
ure responsible  for  the  present  great  scope  of 
the  industry.  Before  he  died  he  had  patented 
over  one  hundred  inventions  bearing  on  the  manu- 
facture of  cigars.  But  he  always  cherished  an 
ambition  to  give  opera.  Late  in  life  he  once  re- 
marked, "  The  tobacco  business  is  prose.  Opera 
is  poetry.  It's  more  fun  to  make  Melba  sing  than 
to  make  cigars."  The  Harlem  Opera  House  was 
the  scene  of  one  of  his  earliest  experiments  with 
opera.  Lilli  Lehmann  sang  there  for  him.  It  was 
there,  I  think,  that  he  gave  one  of  the  first  Ameri- 
can performances  of  Cavalleria  Rusticana.  Al- 
though he  soon  dubbed  the  work,  with  his  charac- 
teristically somewhat  coarse  wit,  Cavalleria  Busti- 
cana,  from  that  time  until  the  day  of  his  death, 
opera  was  his  only  real  interest  and  he  tried  per- 
sistently and  courageously  to  make  it  a  success- 
ful and  popular  form  of  entertainment.  But  he 
never  gave  up  making  cigars ;  he  was  making 
cigars,  I  would  be  willing  to  wager,  the  day  before 
he  was  taken  to  the  hospital.  He  frequently  wrote 
[243] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 


comic  skits  for  the  German  papers  (he  was  a  Ger- 
man Jew,  born  in  Berlin)  and  he  also  wrote  a  good 
deal  of  music,  some  of  which  has  been  published. 
Once  he  wagered  $500  with  Gustave  Kerker  that 
he  could  write  an  opera,  words  and  music,  in 
twenty-four  hours.  Locked  up  in  the  Gilsey 
House,  to  the  sound  of  a  hurdy-gurdy  which 
Kerker  had  engaged  to  play  under  his  window,  he 
won  the  wager.  The  opera,  which  was  subse- 
quently produced,  is  the  worst  on  record,  prob- 
ably even  worse  than  Le  Vieux  Aigle,  another  im- 
pressario's  opera. 

But  to  me,  with  all  this  as  a  vivid  and  alluring 
background,  which  occasionally,  very  occasionally, 
furnished  material  for  lively  conversation,  for  it 
was  not  this  man's  habit  to  talk  of  the  past,  Oscar 
Hammerstein  stood  for  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House,  in  which  during  three  seasons  (I  was  in 
Paris  one  of  its  four  years)  I  enjoyed  perform- 
ances of  opera  as  I  have  never  enjoyed  them  be- 
fore or  since.  The  scenery  and  costumes  for  these 
operas  were  often  cheap  and  tawdry,  not  because 
enough  money  had  not  been  spent,  but  because 
taste  in  this  direction  was  not  one  of  the  man's 
virtues ;  it  was  the  spirit  of  the  performances 
that  was  unforgettable. 

It   was   Oscar's   invariable   habit    to    sit    on   a 
[244] 


Oscar    Hammerstein 

kitchen  chair  in  the  right  entrance  near  the  pros- 
cenium arch.  He  invariably  wore  his  peculiar  top 
hat;  he  invariably,  in  defiance  of  the  fire  laws, 
smoked  a  long  black  cigar.  And  I  think  we  all 
believed  (I  know  we  all  said  often  enough  that 
we  believed)  that  it  was  his  presence  that  gave  the 
performances  their  dash,  their  elan,  their  sparkle, 
their  tremendous  vitality.  Opera  was  exciting  at 
the  Manhattan  Opera  House;  there  is  no  better 
word  to  describe  it.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  though 
in  his  presence  the  singers  were  trying  to  do  their 
best.  The  fact  was,  of  course,  that  he  knew  good 
performances  and  enjoyed  them  and  he  knew  bad 
performances  and  criticized  them.  His  criticism 
was  sharper  than  that  of  any  of  the  professional 
critics.  It  sometimes  took  the  form  of  getting  rid 
of  some  singer  who  had  outlived  his  usefulness  but 
this  was  usually  accomplished  in  some  playful  man- 
ner. 

The  list  of  operas  he  produced  was  in  itself 
remarkable  and  New  York  may  never  hear  or  see 
French  opera  given  so  perfectly  again.  Carmen, 
the  first  season,  was  a  foretaste  of  joys  to  come. 
Thais,  Pelleas,  Louise,  Sapho,  Griselidis,  Le 
Jongleur,  La  Damnation  de  Faust,  Les  Contes 
d'Hoffmann,  all  received  their  due,  some  of  them 
more  than  their  due.  Nor  was  Italian  opera  ne- 
[245] 


Oscar    Hammerstein 

glected,  and  if  you  heard  Don  Giovanni  at  the 
Manhattan  Opera  House  during  the  first  season 
you  heard  the  best  New  York  performance  of  the 
opera  in  recent  years.  Then  there  were  Salome 
and  Elektra.  .  .  .  How  many  singers  he  intro- 
duced to  New  York :  Mary  Garden,  Luisa  Tetraz- 
zini,  Alessandro  Bonci,  Maurice  Renaud,  Mariette 
Mazarin,  Jean  Perrier,  Hector  Dufranne,  John 
McCormack,  Charles  Dalmores,  Amedeo  Bassi, 
Emma  Trentini,  Mario  Sammarco,  Jeanne  Ger- 
ville-Reache.  ...  It  is  a  matter  of  record  that  he 
stimulated  the  rival  theatre  to  make  great  efforts ; 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company,  too,  offered 
brilliant  seasons  during  the  four  years  of  the  Man- 
hattan. But  surprises,  which  Oscar  loved,  were 
lacking  on  Broadway.  His  constantly  active 
brain  was  continually  devising  new  plans,  new  sen- 
sations. After  Chlotilde  Bressler-Gianoli  had 
sung  Carmen  for  nearly  a  full  season,  he  suddenly 
engaged  Emma  Calve  for  a  few  performances. 
Once  Mary  Garden  was  successfully  launched  he 
brought  Luisa  Tetrazzini  to  America  at  the 
height  of  her  meteoric  career  in  London.  He  put 
Mary  Garden  in  the  tenor  part  of  Le  Jongleur  de 
Notre  Dame,  first  securing  Massenet's  consent, 
and  later  he  substituted  a  tenor  for  a  perform- 
ance or  two.  He  introduced  a  snake  charmer  into 
[246] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

Samson  et  DalUa  and  a  juggler  into  Les  Hugue- 
nots. .  .  . 


IV 


There  never  has  been  any  one  like  him;  there 
never  has  been  a  theatrical  manager,  an  operatic 
impressario  (unless  it  was  Richard  Brinsley  Sheri- 
dan) who  came  within  a  mile  of  his  eccentric  great- 
ness or  his  great  eccentricity.  There  was,  if  you 
wUl,  P.  T.  Barnum,  at  whose  name  I  cannot  well 
scoff.  Barnum  was  a  world  famous  figure.  Even 
today  his  name  is  probably  as  well  known  in 
Europe  as  that  of  any  living  American.  But 
P.  T.  Barnum  was  a  Yankee  and  a  Yankee  business 
man.  All  his  ventures  beginning  with  dime  mu- 
seums and  ending  with  Jenny  Lind,  were  money- 
making  schemes.  Like  Hammerstein  he  was  a  co- 
lossal self-advertiser,  but  there  comparison  must 
end.  For  Oscar  Hammerstein  was  a  mystic  Jew, 
or  a  Jewish  mystic.  He  had  his  ideals,  such  as 
they  were.  He  was  an  artist;  not  a  writer,  not 
assuredly  a  musician,  although  he  loved  music 
and  was  some  judge  of  singing,  but  an  artist  in 
life.  He  had  no  desire  to  make  money  except  to 
spend  it,  and  he  spent  it,  mind  you,  not  to  make 
more  money,  but  to  further  his  gigantic  projects. 


Oscar    Hammerstein 

for  from  the  beginning  they  were  always  gigantic. 
His  personal  wants,  however,  were  meagre.  He 
was  accustomed  to  lunch  or  dine  on  a  glass  of  milk 
and  a  box  of  biscuits.  He  smoked  constantly  but 
he  never  touched  intoxicating  liquors.  There  was 
a  time  when  he  frequented  a  certain  corner  in  the 
white  room  at  the  Hotel  Knickerbocker  but  he  did 
not  go  there  for  the  food ;  he  ate  at  most  a  plate  of 
tomato  soup.  He  went  there  to  be  seen.  He  was, 
indeed,  on  such  occasions  the  centre  of  an  admir- 
ing group.  He  understood  such  adulation,  he 
knew  exactly  how  much  it  was  worth,  but  he  was 
not  above  courting  it.  Once,  when  for  the  time 
being  he  seemed  entirely  bereft  of  occupation  he 
said  to  me  rather  sadly  that  in  the  future  he  would 
be  left  pretty  much  alone.  "  No  one  has  any  use 
for  a  man  who  has  quit  work,"  he  assured  me. 
"  You  can't  make  money  out  of  him  any  more." 

Late  in  life  he  owned  a  motor  and  when  his  leg 
began  to  trouble  him  he  sometimes  found  it  expedi- 
ent to  use  it.  But  at  the  height  of  his  career  it 
was  his  custom  to  travel  in  a  street  car.  Often  to 
go  from  the  Victoria  to  the  Manhattan  he  would 
stand  on  the  corner  waiting  for  a  Seventh  Avenue 
car.  It  was  in  a  street  car,  indeed,  that  occurred 
his  famous  meeting  with  a  former  chorus  girl,  who 
had  worked  for  him  at  the  Olympia.  The  con- 
[248] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

tractor  who  was  building  the  Victoria  had  warned 
him  that  day  that,  unless  he  raised  a  certain  sum 
of  money  by  noon,  work  on  the  structure  would  be 
discontinued.  He  has  told  me  that  he  never  felt 
more  disconsolate,  more  discouraged  than  when  he 
boarded  the  car  .  .  .  to  go  nowhere,  merely  to  be 
alone  to  think.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  borrow 
from  any  bank,  from  any  business  man.  "  Is 
Hammerstein  crazy,"  people  had  asked,  "  after  the 
failure  of  the  Olympia  to  build  another  theatre  in 
the  same  block  .^^  No  one  wants  to  go  so  far  up- 
town to  be  amused."  The  chorus  girl  recognized 
him  but  he  did  not  recognize  her.  But  she  saw 
that  he  looked  downcast  and  crossed  the  aisle  to 
speak  to  him,  to  sit  down  beside  him.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  had  told  her  his  troubles ;  they  were  all  he 
had  to  talk  about.  But  how  easy ;  she  had  had  a 
stroke  of  luck,  was  affluent,  had  money  in  the  bank. 
Could  she  help  him  ?  .  .  .  The  Victoria  eventually 
made  more  money  than  any  other  of  his  many 
theatres. 

I  have  described  his  personal  surroundings;  he 
never  bought  anything  so  far  as  I  could  see.  I 
never  have  met  him  in  any  kind  of  a  shop.  Most 
of  the  music  and  books  around  him  had  been  given 
to  him.  I  do  not  think  reading  was  one  of  his 
habits,  but  for  a  man  who  read  little  he  was  aston- 
[249] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

ishingly  well  informed.  One  thing  only  he  desired 
and  it  was  this  that  he  was  always  seeking;  he 
wanted  fame ;  he  wanted  to  be  considered  a  public 
benefactor;  he  wanted  to  be  talked  about  as  the 
man  who  had  done  more  for  opera  in  New  York 
than  any  one  else.  In  a  way  he  had  his  wish ;  in  a 
way  he  had  his  successes,  many  of  them,  although 
I  believe  he  was  never  satisfied.  He  occupied  more 
space  in  the  newspapers  than  any  other  American 
of  his  time  unless  it  was  Theodore  Roosevelt.  He 
made  millions  of  dollars  and  lost  them.  It  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  retrench.  At  a  time  when  the 
Manhattan  Opera  House  was  losing  money  he 
built  the  still  larger  Philadelphia  Opera  House. 

He  liked  to  write  music  and  he  probably  consid- 
ered himself  a  composer.  He  wrote  a  good  deal  of 
it,  dreadful  stuff  that  never  would  have  been  heard, 
had  he  not  been  in  a  position  to  command  a  hear- 
ing; in  this  respect  he  was  like  a  king.  His  fa- 
vourite opera  was  La  Traviata.  He  has  often 
told  me  that  he  felt  there  was  more  sentiment  and 
beauty  in  the  last  act  of  Verdi's  opera  than  in  all 
of  Wagner.  This  was  not  bad  taste.  The  last 
act  of  La  Traviata  is  shop-worn,  perhaps,  but  we 
recognize  its  faded  loveliness.  But  one  would  not 
expect  the  admirer  of  the  last  act  of  Traviata  to 
appreciate  and  engage  Mary  Garden,  to  produce 
[250] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

Pelleas  et  Meliscmde.  That  is  what  I  mean  when 
I  say  that  Oscar  Hammerstein  was  in  his  way  an 
artist,  an  idealist.  He  had  a  certain  kind  of 
gnosis.  Before  his  time  impressarios  had  avoided 
novelties  so  far  as  they  were  able;  he  opened  new 
doors  and  stimulated  public  curiosity.  In  Maurice 
Grau's  day  the  announcement  of  a  novelty  was 
assurance  of  an  empty  house ;  now  it  is  the  assur- 
ance of  a  full  one.  To  Oscar  Hammerstein  is  due 
this  new  condition. 

In  some  strange  way  all  his  own  he  understood 
voices  and  singing.  He  used  to  say  that  all  he 
wanted  was  to  hear  a  singer  once  and  he  could  tell 
whether  he  (or  she)  was  good  or  bad.  Not  all  the 
singers  he  engaged  were  good,  but  their  average 
quality  was  very  high.  He  certainly  had  a  flair 
for  knowing  what  the  public  wanted. 

He  could  be  arrogant  and  hard ;  he  was  always 
egotistical  and  selfish,  and  yet  to  a  certain  degree 
he  drew  men  to  him  and  he  was  extraordinarily  hu- 
man in  unexpected  ways.  I  happen  to  know  of  an 
instance  in  which  a  trusted  employee  (all  his  em- 
ployees were  trusted  to  the  most  absurd  degree; 
he  never  took  the  time  or  trouble  to  watch  anybody 
working  for  him;  his  suspicion  was  all  directed 
towards  those  working  agamst  him)  defaulted. 
He  did  not  prosecute  the  man.  He  never  spoke  of 
[251] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

the  matter  at  all,  but  I  afterwards  learned  that  the 
man  was  ill  in  a  hospital  and  that  Hammerstein 
was  footing  the  bills.  He  could  be  charming  al- 
though he  seldom  could  be  persuaded  to  talk  about 
anything  but  himself  and  his  own  plans.  Perhaps 
he  lacked  a  sense  of  humour  but  he  had  an  amazing 
wit;  there  are  a  thousand  recorded  examples  of 
that.  Some  one,  indeed,  should  collect  them  and 
call  the  collection  "  Hammersteiniana."  Some- 
times this  wit  was  coarse  but  it  frequently  hit  its 
mark.  Of  aU  the  clever  things  I  remember  he  has 
said  I  think  I  prefer  his  reply  to  the  invitation  to 
dine  with  the  directors  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
Company  after  they  had  bought  him  out  for  a 
period  of  ten  years,  the  tragic  ten  years.  This 
reply  was  one  line  long,  a  line  written  in  long  hand, 
for  in  his  busiest  years  he  never  employed  a  secre- 
tary although  a  stenographer  sometimes  copied 
some  of  the  longer  statements  he  prepared  for  the 
newspapers.  "  Grentlemen,"  so  read  his  letter,  "  I 
am  not  hungry."  Letter  writing  was  one  of  his 
major  talents. 

His  arrogance,  his  pride,  his  egoism  assisted  him 
to  success ;  he  allowed  no  obstacle  to  stand  in  his 
way.     They  also  caused  his  downfall.     He  some- 
times scolded  the  public  for  not  being  better  cus- 
[252] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

tomers.  He  refused  backing  unless  it  was  made 
unconditionally;  he  occasionally,  doubtless  (al- 
though I  do  not  know  this  to  be  true),  asked  rich 
men  for  money,  but  he  asked  it  as  Beethoven  would 
have  asked  it,  to  consecrate  his  own  ideals.  He 
scorned  advice  and  he  never  would  submit  to  work- 
ing with  other  men,  or  with  a  board  of  directors. 
That,  indeed,  he  could  not  do. 

He  shared  one  fault  with  all  other  impressarios 
I  have  met.  Singers  were  only  great  when  they 
were  singing  for  him,  or  if  they  were  going  to  sing 
for  him.  And  if  they  drew  large  salaries  without 
drawing  large  audiences  he  lost  his  enthusiasm. 
There  is  a  story  that  he  paid  a  certain  tenor,  only 
half  of  his  salary  for  singing  in  Cavalleria  Rusti- 
cana.  "  You  have  only  worked  half  the  evening," 
was  his  explanation !  He  could  be  bitter  and 
cruel.  His  treatment  of  a  famous  soprano,  who 
appeared  a  few  times  at  the  Manhattan  Opera 
House,  was  perhaps  not  chivalrous,  but  to  him 
it  was  natural.  She,  too,  is  dead  now.  Most  of 
his  singers  were  loyal  to  him.  Mme.  Melba  and  he 
were  great  friends.  He  quarreled  with  Mary 
Garden  but  she  called  to  see  him  only  a  few  weeks 
before  he  died.  Almost  his  last  words  to  me  were 
about  her :  "  She  does  not  know,"  he  said,  "  how 
[253] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

great  she  is.  She  knows  she  is  greater  than  any 
of  the  others,  but  she  does  not  know  how  much 
greater." 

His  philosophy  embraced  all  subjects;  he  even 
had  a  philosophy  in  regard  to  free  tickets  for  his 
theatres.  "  I  like  to  give  a  man  passes  when  my 
theatre  is  crowded,"  he  said.  "  Then  I  am  doing 
something  for  him.  If  I  am  asked  for  seats  when 
the  house  is  empty,  the  asker  makes  me  feel  that  he 
is  doing  something  for  rw^." 

He  was  interested  in  women ;  he  was  married 
three  times.  He  liked  to  talk  to  women;  he  en- 
joyed bantering  with  them.  A  clever  woman,  I 
think,  interested  him  more  than  a  clever  man. 
And  I  think  only  women  fooled  him;  men  he  saw 
through. 

He  was  never  too  busy  to  see  anybody  whom  he 
wanted  to  see.  He  never  kept  newspaper  men 
waiting.  If  he  conducted  long  arguments  with 
Campanini  and  his  singers  he  must  have  done  so 
between  midnight  and  dawn.  For  four  years  I 
saw  him  nearly  every  day  and  I  do  not  remember 
that  he  ever  kept  me  waiting.  It  was  part  of  his 
greatness  that  he  never  seemed  to  be  busy.  He 
always  had  time  for  a  long  talk. 


[254] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 


The  last  ten  years  of  his  life  he  was  slowly 
dying;  there  were  times  when  he  seemed  to  have 
some  realization  of  his  fate,  when  discouragement 
sat  heavily  upon  him.  He  was  ill  when  the  con- 
tract was  signed  in  which  he  pledged  himself  not  to 
give  opera  in  New  York  for  ten  years  and  he  never 
recovered.  He  tried  in  various  ways  to  avoid  the 
issue.  He  gave  opera  in  London,  in  a  new  house, 
in  a  new  district  and  quite  typically  he  instructed 
the  architect  to  carve  his  portrait  in  stone  in  one 
of  the  lintels.  He  imported  a  light  opera  for  the 
Manhattan  Opera  House.  These  ventures  were 
failures.  Indeed,  all  hi^  life,  his  ventures  were 
failures ;  it  was  characteristic  of  his  ideas  that 
they  were  too  big  to  succeed.  Only  the  Victoria, 
his  vaudeville  theatre,  made  money,  and  that  never 
interested  him.  Next  he  planned  a  circle  of  the- 
atres for  cities  like  Cleveland  and  St.  Louis,  each 
of  which  was  to  be  exactly  alike  so  that  he  might 
carry  an  opera  company  and  its  scenery  from  one 
to  the  other  in  rotation.  He  submitted  this 
scheme,  which  he  had  prepared  in  detail,  even  hav- 
ing an  architect  draw  up  the  complete  plans,  to  the 
Boards  of  Trade  in  the  various  cities,  but  although 
[255] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

in  some  instances  much  interest  was  shown,  the 
project  fell  through.  Then,  counting  on  a  some- 
what vague  promise  of  certain  directors  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  Company  that  he  might  give 
opera  in  English  before  his  ten  years  expired,  he 
built  the  Lexington  Avenue  Opera  House.  It  is 
probably  the  ugliest  house  he  erected ;  his  taste  in 
such  matters  was  execrable,  but  its  brilliant 
acoustics  are  a  matter  of  record.  These,  he  as- 
sured me,  were  no  accident,  but  the  result  of  his 
experience  in  building  theatres.  In  the  concrete 
foundation  of  the  balcony  and  orchestra  pit  he  had 
caused  powdered  glass  to  be  sprinkled.  All  of  his 
later  theatres  had  fine  acoustics,  which  leads  me  to 
believe  that  he  had  solved  a  problem  which  has 
always  puzzled  architects,  the  solution  of  which, 
indeed,  is  usually  left  to  chance.  "  My  first  thea- 
tres were  failures  acoustically,"  he  said.  "  There 
was  a  bad  echo  in  the  first  Manhattan  Opera 
House.  I  benefited  by  my  experience  and  now  I 
thoroughly  understand  the  subject  of  acoustics 
and  its  relation  to  theatre  building." 

He  was  not  destined  to  give  opera  at  the  Lexing- 
ton Avenue  Opera  House.  He  never,  indeed,  en- 
tered its  doors.  His  bitterness  and  sorrow  re- 
garding his  loss  of  this  house  tinged  his  talk  for 
many  months. 

[256] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

With  the  changes  in  the  old  Victoria  Oscar 
moved  to  a  dingy  room  on  the  second  floor  of  a 
building  across  Forty-second  Street.  On  the 
third  floor  he  had  rigged  up  his  cigar-making  ma- 
chines, and  he  continued  to  experiment  with  his 
inventions.  Also  I  think  it  was  his  habit  to  make 
most  of  his  own  cigars.  Any  man  who  does  crea- 
tive work  knows  the  advantage  of  having  some 
such  occupation  which  leaves  the  mind  blank  but 
satisfies  the  nervous  fingers.  Less  than  a  year 
ago,  I  think,  he  moved  again,  this  time  to  a  room 
on  the  first  floor  of  a  building  on  West  Thirty- 
eighth  Street.  Again  he  installed  his  machines  on 
the  floor  above.  Not  many  people,  I  fancy,  went 
to  see  him  there,  but  I  made  it  a  habit  to  drift  in 
every  month  or  so.  About  six  months  before  his 
death  he  had  in  a  measure  recovered  his  health. 
He  was  the  old  Oscar  Hammerstein,  buoyant 
and  enthusiastic.  He  planned  to  give  opera 
again;  he  was  surrounded  by  scores,  libretti, 
prospectuses,  and  blank  contracts.  His  con- 
versation fairly  bubbled  with  witty  and  often 
coarse  shafts.  It  seemed  to  me  that  in  1920  the 
Metropolitan  would  again  find  him  a  very  danger- 
ous rival. 

Thither  I  repaired  to  see  him  one  hot  day  about 
three  weeks  before  his  death.  His  office  was  open 
[257] 


Oscar   Hammerstein 

but  empty;  a  man  from  above  called  down  to  de- 
mand what  I  wanted.  "  Ask  Mr.  Hammerstein," 
I  said,  "  if  he  will  see  Mr.  Van  Vechten."  In  a  few 
moments  I  heard  a  limping  step  on  the  floor  above. 
Then  the  familiar  figure  appeared  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  and  came  slowly  down,  very  slowly. 
His  foot  was  worse ;  he  was  in  pain,  severe  pain,  I 
could  see  that.  He  led  me  into  the  office  and  sat 
down,  heavily,  hopelessly.  He  was  tired,  sick, 
worried.  The  long  ten  years  were  over  in  April, 
but  he  could  not  hold  his  Manhattan  Opera  House 
open  until  then ;  on  the  other  hand  the  lessee  was 
not  sure  that  he  could  give  him  the  house  in  April. 
Suppose  he  had  a  success  installed  there.  .  .  . 
Difficulties,  difficulties,  difficulties !  Matters  of  no 
moment  to  the  man  of  forty,  fifty,  and  sixty,  but 
hard  to  bear  for  the  man  of  seventy,  ill,  discour- 
aged, alone,  as  the  man  of  genius  is  always  alone. 
We  spoke  of  Mary  Garden.  We  spoke  of  many 
things,  but  he  was  vague,  hopeless,  tired,  dying. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  knew  he  was  dying.  I  knew  the  end 
had  come.  I  knew  that  he  would  never  give  opera 
again.  I  shook  his  hand  and  he  asked  me  to  come 
again  soon  but  I  knew  as  I  walked  away  that  I 
never  would.  I  felt  that  I  had  lost  something  and 
that  I  would  never  find  it  again.  So  when  I  heard 
that  he  had  been  taken  to  the  hospital  and  lay  at 
[258] 


Oscar    Hammerstein 

the  point  of  death  I  was  not  surprised.     His  death 
did  not  shock  me  when  it  came.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  in  Oscar  Hammerstein,  I  think,  to 
inspire  affection.  His  way  was  too  big,  his  ego- 
ism too  colossal,  his  genius  too  evident.  These 
qualities  made  men  stand  a  little  away  from  him. 
A  few,  indeed,  disliked  him;  a  few,  alas,  derided 
him.  To  some,  even,  who  did  not  know  him,  he 
was  a  trifle  ridiculous.  He  was  never  ridiculous, 
however,  to  those  who  knew  him;  his  dignity  was 
too  perfect;  he  was  even,  in  a  sense,  magnificent! 
He  could  and  did  command  admiration,  admira- 
tion for  the  things  he  accomplished,  more  than 
that,  admiration  for  the  way  he  failed.  He  was 
not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  what  is  called  a  good 
loser.  He  groaned  and  moaned  over  loss,  but  in  a 
few  days  the  board  was  erased  and  with  a  clean 
piece  of  chalk  he  was  drawing  a  new  diagram, 
making  a  new  plan.  I  admired  him;  more  than 
that  I  liked  him.  He  was  a  figure,  he  lived  his 
own  life;  he  fashioned  it  sometimes  with  difficulty 
but  he  always  carved  it  out.  He  was  an  artist; 
he  was  a  genius.  I  have  met  few  men  who  have 
seemed  to  me  as  great.  Some  day,  I  hope,  his 
statue  will  stand  in  Times  Square.  He  would  like 
that. 

August  3,  1919. 

[259] 


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"  /  have  circled  the  world  almost  twice  and  I  have 
seen  so  much  beauty  that  the  memory  of  it  is  like 
a  panorama  of  glory  upon  glory.  I  have  seen  the 
wonders  of  the  drive  from  Sorento  to  Amalfij  the 
majesty  of  the  drive  over  Mt.  Diablo  in  Jamaica  at 
dawn;  the  tropical  splendours  of  the  drive  from  Co- 
lombo to  Kandy  in  Ceylon;  and  I  have  stood  on  the 
edge  of  glaciers  in  Switzerland  awed  at  the  picture 
spread  before  me.  I  have  seen  Stromboli  sending  a 
flame  of  fire  hundreds  of  feet  in  the  air  at  night  while 
its  river  of  fire  ran  down  the  volcano  to  the  sea  below; 
and  I  have  sat  in  the  old  Greek  theater  in  Taormina, 
Sicily,  8,000  feet  above  the  earth,  and  gazed  on  Mt. 
Etna  in  the  distance  lifting  itself  11,000  feet  over  the 
Ionian  sea;  I  have  watched  the  sun  turn  sapphire  sea 
and  azure  clouds  to  Vermillion,  as  it  went  down  on  this 
glorious  scene.  These  and  many  more  wonders  of 
God*s  earth  have  I  beheld,  yet  nowhere  have  I  found 
any  other  spot  which  seemed  to  me  to  combine  so 
much  beauty,  comfort,  convenience,  and  charm  for  the 
enjoyment  of  simple  and  wholesome  life  as  Short- 
Beach-on-the- Sound  at  Granite  Bay." 

EUa  Wheeler  Wilcox:  "  The  Worlds  and  I." 


La  Tigresse 

A  New  York  Night's  Entertainment 


NEW  YORK,  of  all  the  cities  of  the  world  I 
have  lived  in,  delights  me  most,  I  think. 
Some  cities  I  always  dislike;  some,  like 
Florence,  I  find  agreeable  for  a  week  or  a  month 
at  a  time,  but  there  is  a  shifting  grace  about  Man- 
hattan like  the  changeless  changing  pattern  of  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  which  is  persistently  and  peren- 
nially attractive.  Then  there  are  overtones, 
which  awaken  memories,  and  these  confront  us 
everywhere.  When  one  is  in  Paris  one  is  in  Paris ; 
when  one  is  in  Amsterdam  one  is  in  Amsterdam; 
when  one  is  in  Siena  one  is  assuredly  nowhere  but 
in  Siena ;  but  one  may  be  in  New  York  and  a  great 
many  other  places  simultaneously.  Shut  away 
from  your  sight  the  buildings  that  surround  the 
Public  Library  and  you  are  in  Imperial  Rome; 
further  up  Fifth  Avenue  certain  millionaires  have 
reminded  us  very  forcibly  that  there  are  chateaux 
on  the  Loire ;  the  Giralda  Tower  of  Seville  looms  in 
leafy  Madison  Square,  "  Diana's  wooded  park," 
as  O.  Henry  lovingly  called  it,  and  nearby  the 
[263] 


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Venetian  campanile  pierces  the  sky;  a  little  re- 
moved on  Fourth  Avenue  there  is  a  very  fair  copy 
of  the  Torre  del  Mangia  in  Siena;  where  Canal 
Street  strikes  off  from  the  Bowery  in  the  heart  of 
Jewry  the  sweeping  colonnades  which  preface  the 
Manhattan  Bridge  are  obviously  suggested  by 
the  colonnades  of  St.  Peter's  in  Rome ;  the  arch  of 
Titus  guards  Washington  Square;  the  Swiss 
chalets  which  serve  as  stations  for  the  elevated 
railroads  remind  us  that  the  Swiss  Family  Robin- 
son lived  in  a  tree;  the  Town  Hall  of  Verona 
decorates  Herald  Square;  there  are  buildings  on 
Lafayette  Street  and  on  East  Forty-third  Street 
obviously  inspired  by  Venice;  on  East  Broadway 
between  brick  tenements  and  loft  buildings,  smart 
brick  houses  with  white  doorways,  marble  steps, 
and  handwrought  iron  railings  may  take  us  back 
to  London  or  New  York  of  the  fifties ;  at  different 
seasons  of  the  year  violets  or  roast  chestnuts  are 
vended  on  the  street  comers  after  the  manner  of 
Paris ;  a  veritable  Egyptian  pyramid  caps  a  build- 
ing on  Nassau  Street ;  here  and  there  one  catches  a 
glimpse  of  a  Dutch  fa9ade;  the  night  sandwich 
wagons  awaken  thoughts  of  London  coffee  stalls, 
including  Neil  Lyons's  immortal  "  Arthur's  " ;  the 
lovely  eighteenth  century  city  hall,  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  single  building  in  New  York,  is  sur- 
[264] 


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rounded  by  sky-scrapers,  like  a  Taj  Mahal  in  a 
valley  dominated  by  mountain  peaks,  in  the  unre- 
lated turmoil  of  City  Hall  Square;  and  now  the 
war  has  set  a  camouflaged  battle-ship  with  fight- 
ing turrets  in  the  centre  of  Union  Square,  other- 
wise a  wilderness  of  moving  picture  houses,  sa- 
loons, and  burlesque  theatres,  and  at  several  points 
at  street  intersections  or  in  parks  Swiss  chalets 
or  Iowa  farm-houses  have  been  erected  in  which  the 
Salvation  Army  or  the  Knights  of  Columbus  dis- 
pense hot  coffee  and  doughnuts  and  the  "  Satur- 
day Evening  Post  "  to  soldiers  and  sailors.  If 
these  incongruities  cause  no  comment,  awaken  no 
excitement,  compel  no  shrieks  of  astonishment,  it 
is  because  the  note  of  incongruity  is  the  true  note 
of  the  island;  nothing  is  incongruous  because 
everything  is.  In  a  city  where  one  finds  a  Goya 
Apartment  House,  and  an  Hotel  Seville  it  is  no 
surprise  to  discover  that  an  avenue  has  been  chris- 
tened after  Santa  Claus !  New  York  is,  indeed, 
the  only  city  over  which  airships  can  fly  without 
appearing  to  fly  in  the  face  of  tradition.  If  a 
blue  hippopotamus  took  to  laying  eggs  on  the  cor- 
ner of  Forty-seventh  Street  and  Broadway  every 
day  at  noon,  the  rite  would  pass  unobserved  after 
a  week. 

So  in  New  York,  as  others  have  pointed  out,  it  is 
[265] 


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possible  to  eat  in  seventy  or  eighty  different  styles : 
in  Spanish  restaurants  on  Pearl  Street,  on  the 
sidewalk,  after  the  fashion  of  a  hundred  European 
cities,  on  Second  Avenue,  in  Rumanian  style  on 
Forsythe  Street,  the  food  of  the  Syrians  on  Wash- 
ington Street,  Turkish  or  Armenian  fashion  on 
Lexington  Avenue,  Swedish  fashion  on  Thirty- 
sixth  Street,  Russian  fashion  on  Thirty-seventh, 
German  on  Fourteenth,  Hawaiian  on  Forty- 
seventh,  Jewish  on  Canal,  Indian  on  Forty-second, 
Greek  on  Sixth  Avenue,  and  French,  Chinese,  Ne- 
gro, Italian,  and  American  everywhere  1 

So  cosmopolitan  is  New  York  in  the  matter  of 
cookery  that  no  bizarre  appetite  should  go  unsat- 
isfied; gefiiUte  fsch  or  venison,  bear  steak  or 
bird's-nest  soup,  snails  or  alligator  pears,  pirogue 
or  halvahy  tass  kebab  or  tel  kadayif,  are  all  to  be 
found  somewhere.  And  in  these  strange  restau- 
rants, all  so  foreign  to  the  spirit  of  America,  and 
aU  somehow  so  right  in  Manhattan,  all  bearing 
nostalgic  breaths  of  the  homelands  to  certain  fre- 
quenters, strange  adventures  occur,  a  thousand 
unchronicled  episodes  happen  in  a  night.  And  it 
is  well  to  remember  that  New  York  is  the  city 
where  John  Masefield  worked  as  a  barman,  where 
Harry  Thaw  shot  Stanford  White,  where  P.  T. 
Barnum  first  exhibited  white  elephants  and  aged 


La   Tigresse 


Negro  women,  and  where  later  he  became  the  im- 
presario of  Tom  Thumb  and  Jenny  Lind,  where 
Adah  Isaacs  Menken,  the  lady  who  wrote  "  In- 
felicia  "  and  who  in  her  impersonation  of  Mazeppa 
was  bound  to  the  back  of  a  horse  which  dashed 
madly  over  the  canvas  crags  of  the  New  York 
stage,  lived  at  what  later  became  the  Maison 
Favre,  where  Nick  Carter  worked  and  Van  Bibber 
played,  where  Gorky  was  refused  hotel  accommo- 
dations and  Marie  Lloyd  was  held  at  Ellis  Island, 
where  Theodore  Roosevelt,  returning  from  a  jour- 
ney round  the  world,  drove  up  Broadway  in  a  tri- 
umphal procession  like  an  emperor  in  his  chariot, 
where  Emma  Goldman,  William  Dean  Howells, 
Theodore  Dreiser,  Victor  Maurel,  and  David 
Belasco  have  their  homes  and  do  their  work.  In 
short  a  subtle,  banal,  charming,  vulgar,  adorable 
city  which  has  seen  more  civilizations  in  fifty  years 
than  Rome  in  the  whole  extent  of  her  career,  a 
palimpsest  of  human  impressions,  a  seething  fur- 
nace of  every  passion,  every  desire,  a  congeries  of 
every  race,  every  creed,  stratum  after  stratum  of 
new  birth  growing  from  the  old. 

The  incidents,  the  facets  of  New  York  life  are 

so  various,  the  implications  and  the  suggestions  so 

multiple,  that  no  novelist  has  as  yet  been  able  to 

set  down  a  satisfying  picture  of  them ;  if  any  did 

[267] 


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succeed  the  life  would  change  while  he  was  writing 
his  book  and  what  he  had  written  would  seem, 
when  published,  as  strange  and  as  old  fashioned  as 
an  account  of  the  times  of  the  early  Dutch  settlers 
or  the  picturesque  careers  of  the  pirates  and  con- 
quistadors. There  is  something  of  Dickens's  Lon- 
don even  in  the  London  of  today,  but  if  you  look 
over  any  New  York  novel  published  ten  years  ago 
you  will  find  it  already  old-fashioned. 

Gaze  down  any  street  on  the  East  Side  in  the 
late  summer  afternoon ;  watch  the  setting  sun  play 
havoc  with  the  tangled  clothes  lines  with  their 
waving  burdens,  stretched  from  the  red  brick  tene- 
ments on  one  side  of  the  street  to  those  of  the 
other,  the  patterns  of  flags,  the  iron  fire-escapes, 
the  thousands  of  human  figures  in  black,  white, 
red,  orange,  and  green,  and  a  perfect  Turner  can- 
vas is  mirrored  in  your  retina.  Walk  down  Wall 
Street  or  some  adjacent  tiny  lane  on  some  Sunday 
when  the  district  is  deserted  and  you  will  seem 
to  be  alone  and  lost  at  the  bottom  of  some  horrific 
canyon.  Stare  at  the  golden  heights  of  the  Wool- 
worth  Building  in  the  bright  sunglare  and  whether 
you  are  reminded  of  a  glittering  mountain  peak 
or  the  aspirational  architecture  of  a  cathedral 
your  thoughts  involuntarily  turn  towards  God. 
Stand  in  the  mauve-blue  of  a  New  York  twilight  in 
[268] 


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the  centre  of  Madison  Square  and  gaze  at  the  rose- 
grey  tower  twinkling  with  hghts  as  it  melts  into 
the  soft  cerulean  vault  above.  Or  walk  up  Broad- 
way in  the  evening,  Broadway  decorated  with  a 
thousand  illuminated  designs  in  as  many  moving 
colours  to  catch  the  eye,  and  try  to  think  of  any- 
thing else  but  Sinbad's  Valley  of  Jewels !  What 
does  it  all  mean?  How  can  I  or  any  one  else  cor- 
relate these  impressions,  force  them  into  a  common 
note,  adapt  them  to  the  form  of  a  fictional  sym- 
phony with  somebody  else,  something  else  forcing 
himself,  itself  into  the  picture  at  every  comer, 
making  it  more  and  more  difficult,  impossible  in- 
deed, to  adjust  sensation,  to  weigh  impression,  to 
ascertain  what  one  has  seen,  to  describe  what  one 
Ras  seen  at  all? 

In  New  York  then,  which  Henry  James  has 
called  "  the  long  shrill  city,"  it  is  best  to  en- 
joy one  sensation  at  a  time,  to  shut  out  all  the 
others,  and  while  you  are  doing  this  you  may  find 
yourself  believing  that  no  other  exists,  so  complete 
in  itself  is  each  of  its  sides.  You  may  spend  your 
time  with  rich  bankers  and  dine  exclusively  on  Riv- 
erside Drive  and  West  End  Avenue,  go  to  the  Bilt- 
more,  the  Union  League  Club,  and  the  Midnight 
Frolic ;  you  may  live  in  Greenwich  Village  in  a  sack 
(if  you  are  a  woman)  and  be  ignorant  of  the  very 


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existence  of  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  Hickson's,  or 
Herman  Patrick  Tappe ;  you  may  belong  to  a  the- 
atrical set' and  haunt  the  Lambs'  Club  or  the  Hotel 
Knickerbocker ;  you  may  be  a  member  of  the  Acad- 
emy of  Arts  and  Letters  and  look  down  disapprov- 
ingly on  all  other  artistic  and  literal  activity ;  you 
will  even  find  if  you  have  the  habit  of  a  certain 
table  d'hote  that  that  table  d'hote  in  a  sense  limits 
your  life  and  if  you  change  your  dining  habits  a 
feeling  of  freedom,  of  enlarged  perspective  is  the 
immediate  result. 

Alas,  both  for  my  career  as  a  private  citizen 
and  my  career  as  a  writer  I  find  it  impossible  to 
limit  myself.  I  wish  to  dine  with  a  bishop  and  go 
to  the  theatre  with  Manon  Lescaut  or  Moll  Flan- 
ders; I  wish  to  dance  with  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough and  to  talk  with  Polaire;  I  cannot  get 
along  without  knowing  Peter  Whiffle  but  it  was 
equally  important  to  me  at  one  time  to  know 
Chuck  Connors.  I  never  met  Steve  Brodie.  I  re- 
gret it.  I  did  know  Sweeney,  but  Sweeney  is 
a  long  and  different  story.  I  am  not  acquainted 
with  Edward  Bok.  I  am  sorry.  I  once  dined, 
however,  with  Mary  MacLane  and  I  have  been  in- 
troduced to  Mrs.  O.  H.  P.  Belmont,  although  she, 
doubtless,  has  forgotten  the  incident.  .  .  .  And  so 
I  feel  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  New 
[270] 


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York  justice:  I  love  her  too  much  and  I  am  too  in- 
constant to  any  one  part  of  her.  From  her  feet 
in  the  Battery  to  the  hair  of  her  head  in  the  Bronx 
I  lavish  my  caresses  unsparingly  and  gregariously. 
And  if  I  do  not  linger  with  her  heart  and  head  it  is 
only  because  I  am  too  sure  they  are  always  there. 


n 

It  was  a  sweet  sight,  the  tall  ungainly  young 
blond  French  savage  in  his  naval  uniform,  very 
naive  and  delightful,  standing  to  sing  in  the 
crowded  and  somewhat  ribald  cafe.  He  had  been 
asked  to  sit  at  our  table  and  to  consume  a  little  of 
the  red  wine  of  California,  and  when  some  one 
suggested  that  he  sing  Quand  Madelon  he  got  up 
to  do  so  at  once  as  if  there  were  no  other  course 
open  to  him  after  having  accepted  our  hospitality. 
His  high  pitched  and  unresonant  organ  produced  a 
sound  wholly  unrelated  to  the  art  of  singing  as  it 
is  generally  understood  but  he  knew  the  words  and 
he  continued  to  deliver  verse  after  verse  in  his 
quaint  school-boy  manner  lifting  now  his  right 
arm,  now  his  left. 

"  Quand  Madelon  vient  noits  servir  a  boire.   .   ,   ." 

The  buzz   in   the   cafe   ceased   and   began   again, 
[271] 


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ceased  and  began  again,  ceased  and  began  again. 
Jean-Bap tiste  (why  are  all  French  peasants  named 
Jean-Baptiste?)  continued: 

"  Quand  Madelon  vient  twus  servir  a  hoire.  .  .  ." 

Was  this  the  twenty-first  time?  When  he  reached 
the  stanza  about  the  caporal, 

"  Un  caporal  enkepi  de  fantasie  .  .  ."  we  felt 
we  had  listened  long  enough  for  the  sake  of  polite- 
ness and  went  on  with  our  conversation,  but  Jean- 
Baptiste  went  on  with  his  song, 

"  Ma-de-lon,  Ma-de-loUy  Ma-de-lon  ..." 

"  It  is  a  better  war  song  than  America  or  Eng- 
land has  produced,"  Peter  Whiffle  was  saying. 
"  Both  words  and  music  are  better,  far,  far  better 
than  those  of  Over  There  or  Tipper ary J** 

"  It  is  very  long,"  I  commented. 

"  Elle  rit,  c*est  tout  Vmal  qu^elV  sait  faire  ..." 
sang  Jean-Baptiste  and  suddenly,  quite  as  sud- 
denly as  he  had  commenced,  he  finished,  and  sat 
down  to  drink  more  of  the  red  wine  of  California 
in  the  most  complete  silence.  For  he  had  sung  all 
the  verses  he  knew  and  unless  some  one  asked  him 
to  repeat  them,  which  doubtless  he  would  willingly 
have  done,  he  could  do  no  more  for  us.  Eventu- 
[272] 


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ally,  however,  Peter  Whiffle,  observing  that  the  boy 
seemed  out  of  our  circle,  took  him  in  again  with  a 
question, 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  tw  fais  au  pays?  " 

Jean-Baptiste  was  priceless :  "  Sometimes  we 
have  rabbit  stew.  When  my  sister  was  married  we 
had  rabbit  stew.  For  weeks  beforehand  we  caught 
cats  on  the  roads,  in  the  fields,  in  the  barns.  My 
brother  caught  cats  and  I  caught  cats,  and  my 
father  caught  cats ;  we  all  caught  cats.  We 
caught  forty  cats,  perhaps  fifty  cats.  Some  were 
Toms,  some  were  females  with  kittens  inside  them. 
Some  were  black  and  some  were  white  and  some 
were  yellow  and  some  were  tabbies.  One  cat 
scratched  a  big  gash  in  my  brother's  face  and  he 
bled.  Then  we  locked  them  in  a  room,  my  father 
and  I.  .  .  .  My  brother  was  afraid  after  he  had 
been  scratched.  .  .  .  We  went  into  the  room  with 
cudgels  and  beat  about  us,  )beat  the  cats  on  the 
head.  For  an  hour  we  chased  them  round  the 
room  until  all  the  cats  lay  dead  on  the  floor.  How 
they  did  howl,  and  screech  and  fight,  but  we  were  a 
match  for  them.  Then  my  brother  and  my  mother 
skinned  the  cats  and  made  a  magnificent  rabbit 
stew  for  my  sister's  wedding."  .  .  .  Jean-Baptiste 
lapsed  into  complete  silence  again,  reverting  to  his 
glass  of  red  wine. 

[273] 


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It  was  growing  late.  A  few  sailors  with  their 
girls  sat  about  the  remaining  tables  chatting  and 
drinking  and  the  proprietor,  a  great  figure  of  a 
man  with  shaggy  eyebrows  and  the  moustache  of 
a  villain  of  tank  melodrama,  glowered  from  behind 
the  counter.  A  young  fellow  occasionally'  tapped 
melodies  out  of  the  piano,  American  tunes  of  the 
day  and  night,  and  occasionally  some  of  the  sailors 
tried  to  dance,  hobbling  about,  destroying  rhythm 
and  women's  footgear  in  one  enveloping  gesture. 

The  place  brought  a  memory  back  which  I 
sought  to  recapture.  Some  past  fragrance  blew 
into  my  nostrils ;  some  vague  analogue  presented 
itself.  .  .  .  There  is  a  certain  street  in  Antwerp 
where  sailors  are  deprived  simultaneously  of  their 
virility  and  their  money,  a  long  winding  street 
near  the  wharves  with  house  after  house  conse- 
crated to  one  purpose ;  in  the  evening  the  windows, 
some  of  them  with  tiny  square  bulging  Belgian 
panes,  are  brilliantly  lighted,  but  each  of  these 
windows  is  carefully  curtained  and  only  a  chance 
shadow  occasionally  exposes  the  lewd  interior  to 
the  passer-by  ...  a  shadow  or  some  fat  figure 
on  a  doorstep,  a  slousy  hussy,  or  a  sleek  procurer 
with  greasy  moustache  and  eager  eyes.  Occa- 
sionally a  cafe  interrupts  the  rhythm,  a  cafe  where 
fat  Belgian  molls  and  drunken  sailors,  English, 
[274] 


La   Tigresse 


French,  Swedish,  and  American  sailors,  make  some 
pretence  of  gaiety  .  .  .  but  this  film  quickly  faded 
from  the  screen.  The  scene  about  me  was  utterly 
different  in  suggestion.  Perhaps  it  was  the  per- 
fume of  one  of  the  women,  and  perhaps  it  was  the 
way  the  sailors  d«.nced,  but  suddenly  it  all  came 
back  to  me  .  .  .  how  once  I  had  spent  a  quiet  and 
delightful  evening  in  a  bourgeois  cafe  in  the  Batig- 
nolles  quarter  in  Paris.  There  had  been  some 
singing,  a  great  deal  of  talking,  an  immense 
amount  of  smoking  and  drinking,  and  it  was  both 
convendble  and  cheerful. 

The  entrance  of  a  pleasant  looking  little  woman 
interrupted  my  revery.  She  wore  a  plaid  skirt 
and  a  flannel  blouse;  her  frousy  hair  was  sur- 
mounted by  an  unfashionable  turban.  Her  figure 
was  inclined  to  be  steatopygous.  She  was  forty 
and  she  had  a  number  of  gold  teeth.  But  her  eyes 
were  dark  and  piercing,  and  her  smile,  as  she  turned 
to  bow  to  one  of  my  companions,  was  divine.  I 
must  have  looked  a  question  for  he  said  at  once, 

"  That  is  la  Tigresse^ 

"  La  Tigresse?  " 

"  I  don't  know  her  real  name.     Every  one  here 
calls  her  that.     She  lives  upstairs  and  usually  ap- 
pears about  this  hour  in  the  morning.     You  should 
hear  her  sing.     She's  very  remarkable." 
[275] 


La  Tigresse 


We  asked  her  to  sing  but  some  time  elapsed  be- 
fore she  did  so.  She  passed  from  group  to  group, 
asking  the  sailors  questions  about  their  homes, 
about  their  lives  at  sea,  about  the  women  they 
knew,  about  Paris.  But  such  questions  about 
Paris  as  I  heard  her  ask  seemed  to  be  confined  to 
two  quarters,  those  of  the  BatignoUes  and  the 
Bat-a-clan.  When  she  finally  came  to  sit  with 
us  I  was  struck  at  once  by  her  essential  dignity, 
her  reserve,  her  poise.  She  spoke  of  the  war  and 
her  beautiful  France  and  she  spoke  of  the  apaches 
but  she  was  always  interesting,  always  delightful, 
always  to  a  certain  extent  a  personage.  She  had, 
indeed,  thoroughly  aroused  my  curiosity  before  she 
consented  to  sing  at  all. 

It  was  two  o'clock.  The  crowd  had  thinned  to 
two  groups.  The  patron  yawned  behind  the 
counter.  The  pianist  had  gone  home.  Suddenly 
la  Tigresse  arose  and  backing  into  the  middle  of 
the  room,  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  skirt,  she 
began  to  sing  without  accompaniment  "  Quand  je 
danse  avec  Vhomme  frise"  which  related  the  his- 
tory of  a  preposterous  heguin  in  a  frank  and 
ribald  manner.  The  tune  itself  had  the  self- 
conscious  impertinence  of  the  Boulevard  Sebasto- 
pol.  Her  hips  swayed,  her  eyes  flashed  fire,  her 
voice  bawled  out  the  tones.  She  became,  indeed, 
[276] 


La   Tigresse 


immediately  a  different  person  and  I  recognized 
the  artist  in  her  at  once.  What  fervour!  What 
animation!  What  power  of  characterization! 
What  sensuous  appeal!  With  one  song  she  had 
already  evoked  an  atmosphere  and  she  continued 
her  magic,  singing  now  comic  songs  about  simple 
Belgian  visitors  to  Paris,  now  tragedies  of  the 
water  front,  and  then  the  dark  and  gloomy  Seine 
flowed  under  the  nocturnal  bridges  before  our  eyes 
and  the  vice  and  sordid  misery  of  the  rats  who 
haunt  the  quays  came  between  us  and  the  reality  of 
the  cafe.  Lower  and  lower  she  dragged  us  with 
unfailing  effect,  through  the  streets  of  Menilmon- 
tant  and  Belleville.  Bibi  and  Toto  and  Bubu  and 
the  others  stalked  across  her  red  and  purple  can- 
vas. They  loved  and  killed  and  died.  And  in 
contrast  to  these  sordid  histories  she  sketched 
lighter  pictures  of  Paris  smiling,  tiny  midinettes, 
saucy  grisettes,  and  flamboyant  cocottes,  Made- 
leine of  the  Olympia  Bar,  or  Celestine  of  Maxim's, 
or  Angelique  of  Page's,  the  love  adventures  of  little 
Mimi  Pinson  on  her  way  to  work,  overtaken  by  a 
shaft  from  Eros,  shot  from  the  window  of  a  ware- 
house by  a  heau  gars.  And  all  these  were  painted 
with  sympathy  and  understanding.  The  charac- 
teristic gesture  was  never  wanting,  nor  were  hu- 
mour and  pathos.  I  don't  know  how  much  this 
[277] 


La   Tigresse 


would  have  delighted  me  in  the  theatre,  but  in  this 
small  semi-deserted  room,  with  a  few  French  sail- 
ors as  background,  it  seemed  the  finest  and  most 
finished  art.  Red  champagne  was  brought  and  as 
it  bubbled  in  the  glasses  La  Tigresse  sat  down  to 
help  us  drink  it. 

"  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  "  I  asked  in  some 
awe,  no  doubt  expecting  her  to  answer  Mephis- 
tophela  or  Astarte. 

"  La  Tigresse.  .  .  .  Have  you  never  seen  my 
name  on  the  posters  in  Paris  ?  "  And  she  talked 
freely  of  her  triumphs  in  the  small  halls  around  the 
Chatelet  and  in  the  Batignolles  quarter,  her  ad- 
vance to  the  Scala  and  even  La  Cigale,  where  her 
successful  representation  of  a  femme  cocker  had 
caused  the  defection  of  the  beautiful  Idette  de 
Bremonval. 

And  now  she  was  here,  forgotten,  singing  in  a 
cheap  American  haunt  of  French  sailors  and  taken 
by  them  with  less  gusto  than  they  would  have 
awarded  to  the  commonest  Coney  Island  diva. 
Our  applause,  I  thought,  must  have  come  to  her  as 
a  great  boon,  giving  her  a  delight  she  had  not  felt 
for  a  long  time.  And  yet  from  her  appearance 
and  manner  as  she  sat  at  our  table  I  could  not 
make  out  that  she  was  in  any  way  excited. 

"  The  woman  is  a  find,"  I  said  to  Peter.  "  She 
[^78] 


La   Tigresse 


should  have  a  great  success  here  if  we  could  ar- 
range some  drawing  room  appearances  for  her." 
And  as  we  talked  over  the  possibilities,  a  great 
pity  surged  into  my  heart,  a  pity  for  her  warm 
but  unfashionable  apparel,  the  signs  of  her  pov- 
erty. 

We  went  back  again  and  again  to  hear  La 
Tigresse.  She  always  came  into  the  cafe  about 
one  o'clock  and  she  remained  until  the  place  was 
empty.  Sometimes  she  simply  tied  a  skirt  around 
her  nightgown,  stuck  a  few  pins  into  her  hair,  drew 
on  stockings  and  low  shoes,  threw  a  black  shawl 
over  her  broad  shoulders  and  descended.  Some- 
times she  wore  the  costume  in  which  I  had  orig- 
inally seen  her,  but  each  night  she  had  a  new  reper- 
tory ;  each  night  she  delighted  us  with  new  songs. 
Curiously  enough,  it  seemed  at  the  time,  our  praise 
never  upset  her  dignity  or  demolished  her  poise. 
She  was  pleased  but  never  excited. 

Peter  and  I  met  one  day  for  action.  We  de- 
cided that  something  must  be  done.  We  agreed 
that  French  songs,  no  matter  how  good  they  were 
or  how  well  they  were  sung,  would  make  no  effect 
in  our  music  halls.  I  recalled,  indeed,  but  too 
well  the  failure  of  Yvette  Guilbert  on  that  sad  aft- 
ernoon at  the  Colonial  Theatre  on  Broadway. 
Even  a  "  recital  "  in  ^olian  Hall  did  not  seem 
[279] 


La   Tigresse 


practical.  But  we  thought  that  La  Tigresse,  in 
her  plaid  skirt  and  flannel  shirt  waist  might  be 
gorgeous  in  somebody's  drawing  room  after  din- 
ner. It  was  to  be  her  rehabilitation.  In  time,  in- 
deed, she  might  return  to  Paris,  to  her  old  place  in 
the  music  halls  there.  And  so  we  dreamed  and 
planned. 

One  night,  after  La  Tigresse  had  been  particu- 
larly wonderful  (she  had  led  three  apaches  to  the 
guillotine  and  four  gigolettes  to  bed)  it  occurred 
to  us  to  talk  to  the  patron  about  her,  and  we  called 
this  grave-faced  peasant,  this  big  brawny  man 
from  the  South,  over  to  our  table  to  discuss  the 
matter. 

"  It's  about  la  Tigresse  we  want  to  talk,"  I  be- 
gan. 

"  La  Tigresse.  .   .  .  Well,  there  she  is." 
"  Yes,  what  can  be  done  about  her.''  " 
"  What   do  you  mean  .  .   .  what  can  be  done 
about  her?  " 

"  We  want  to  get  her  some  work  .  .   ." 
"  Work !    La  Tigresse  won't  work.    She  doesn't 
want  work." 

We  looked  rather  astonished,  but  I  persisted, 
"  But  surely  if  she  were  better  known  she  could 
make  some  money  .  .  .  she  could  buy  herself  some 
clothes  .  .  .  she  ..." 

[280] 


La  Tigresse 


At  last  the  patron  understood.  And  under- 
standing, he  began  to  laugh.  Huge  guffaws  shook 
his  enormous  frame  as  he  rocked  back  and  forth. 
He  shouted  and  puffed  with  mirth.  The  tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks  and  mingled  with  the  grease  of  his 
fierce  moustache. 

We  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  and  so  did  the 
few  others  who  remained  in  the  cafe.  At  last  he 
felt  calm  enough  to  speak. 

"  You  think  she's  poor,  what  you  call  down  and 
out,  la  Tigresse  .  .  ." 

We  nodded.     "Isn't  she.?" 

"  Good  God !  I'm  prosperous.  I  do  a  good 
business.  I've  put  away  some  money,  but  I'd  like 
to  have  the  money  that  woman  has !  She  was  very 
successful  in  Paris  and  she  saved  her  earnings ; 
then  later  when  twilight  was  beginning  to  descend 
on  her  talent  (it  is  often  very  easy  for  even  the 
patron  of  a  cafe  to  be  somewhat  poetic  in  French) 
she  met  an  old  South  American.  He  gives  her  all 
the  money  she  wants  and  asks  very  little  in  return. 
He  doesn't  even  see  her  more  than  three  or  four 
times  a  year  because  he  is  always  travelling  and  la 
Tigresse  detests  to  travel.  .  .  .  She  has  a  tiara 
of  emeralds;  she  has  her  own  Rolls-Royce.  God, 
it's  funny  to  think  that  some  one  thought  la 
Tigresse  was  poor.  .   .   ." 

[281] 


La   Tigresse 


'*  Then  why,"  I  asked,  "  why  does  she  dress  as 
she  does  ?  Why  does  she  sing  for  us  ?  Why  does 
she  come  here  at  all?  " 

"  It  is  her  life.  It  is  what  she  is  accustomed 
to  ;  it  is  what  she  likes.  She  was  brought  up  in  the 
bars  around  the  Batignolles  and  her  childhood  was 
a  pleasant  one.  So  she  comes  here  to  revive  the 
memory.  The  types  are  similar,  as  similar  as  one 
can  find  in  New  York.  If  she  were  in  Paris  she 
would  live  in  the  Batignolles.  Her  clothes  are  no 
disguise.  She  is  comfortable  in  them.  She  al- 
ways wears  them;  they  are  what  she  is  used  to. 
What  would  you  have.^^  " 


III 


The  night  was  cold.  It  was  after  three  and  the 
streets  were  deserted.  The  cold  steel-blue  of  the 
sky  was  sprinkled  with  stars.     It  was  very  still. 

I  spoke  the  first  word,  "  So  there  you  are. 
You  never  can  tell." 

"  What  a  wonderful  thing  to  do,"  Peter  Whiffle 
was  saying,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  me,  "  to 
revert  to  type  in  this  way,  or  rather  to  refuse  to 
relinquish  type,  to  cling  to  it,  to  live  with  it,  to 
caress  and  love  it.  She  sees  no  reason  for  making 
herself  uncomfortable  merely  because  she  happens 
[282] 


La   Tigresse 


to  be  rich,  and  she  is  right.  You've  heard  of  men 
who,  after  they  had  made  their  money,  bought  the 
old  farm  back  for  sentimental  reasons,  but  they 
never  went  to  live  on  it.  Nobody  has  ever  done 
this  before." 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  la  Tigresse^'*  I  replied, 
"  She  wanted  the  Batignolles  and  if  you  know 
what  you  want  you  can  find  it  in  New  York,  even 
the  Batignolles.  .  .  .  But  how  are  you  and  I  go- 
ing to  revert  to  type,  supposing  we  want  to? 
What  is  our  type?  How  are  we  going  to  settle 
back  in  our  middle  age  into  the  pleasures  of  our 
youth?  They  have  been  too  many.  They  have 
been  too  various." 

Peter  turned  it  over.  "  I  don't  want  to  settle 
back,  and  I  don't  believe  you  do  either.  If  you  do 
you'll  find  a  nice  little  white  wooden  house,  very 
much  like  the  one  you  were  born  in,  I  should  fancy, 
down  Union  Square  way.  It's  dedicated  to  the 
uses  of  the  Salvation  Army  war  activities  just  now, 
but  even  the  doughnuts  would  probably  do  more  to 
make  you  remember  the  old  home  than  the  building 
itself." 

"  It's  too  late  to  go  there  tonight,"  I  explained, 
"  and  tomorrow.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  think  it  over." 

"  You  bet  you'll  think  it  over !  "  retorted  Peter. 

February  17,  1919. 

[283] 


In  the  Theatres  of  the  Purlieus 

"  A  good  title  should  aim  at  making  what  follows  as 
far  as  possible  superfluous  to  those  who  know  any- 
thing of  the  subject." 

Samuel  Butler. 


I 

Mimi  Aguglia  as 
Salome 


THE  great  New  York  public  —  the  public 
that  patronizes  Broadway  successes,  to 
be  exact  —  plays  with  the  foreign  the- 
atre, both  its  dramas  and  its  acting.  Each 
of  its  elements  may  be  a  sensation  for  a 
week  or  a  month,  whereupon,  like  the  pro- 
verbial doll,  it  is  tossed  into  the  proverbial 
comer,  and,  with  some  of  its  gloss  worn  off,  it  is 
given  to  the  poor  neighbour's  child  in  New  Jersey 
or  Colorado.  New  York  can  be  constant  to  a 
play  like  Within  the  Law,  or  to  an  actress  like 
Maude  Adams,  but  the  Russian  Ballet,  which  has 
thrilled  and  amused  Europe  for  nearly  a  decade, 
excited  curiosity  here  for  a  few  weeks  and  now  is 
completely  forgotten.  We  pull  such  plums  out  of 
the  foreign  cake  as  Alia  Nazimova  or  Bert  Wil- 
liams or  Bertha  Kalich,  and,  in  order  to  satisfy 
Broadway  stomachs,  they  are  forced  to  alter  the 
very  qualities  which  made  them  palatable  in  their 
original  environment.  Bert  Williams  is  no  more 
the  player  who  once  delighted  and  amazed  Elea- 
[287] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


nora  Duse  than  Alia  Nazimova  is  the  woman  who, 
as  Regina,  almost  outplayed  the  greatest  of  Os- 
walds. 

Nevertheless,  Broadway  seems  to  continue  to 
call  for  more.  It  is  fortunate  that  some  of  the 
great  foreign  actors  who  have  played  in  New 
York's  minor  theatres  have  resisted  its  alleged  de- 
sires, refused  the  proffered  admiration,  which  cer- 
tainly is  not  to  be  depended  upon  for  any  extended 
period.  Why,  Broadway  even  consigned  Sarah 
Bernhardt  to  the  music  halls  !  Mimi  Aguglia,  who, 
I  am  almost  convinced,  has  more  genius  than  any 
other  actress  on  the  stage  today,  if  we  except  the 
lyric  stage,  has  fortunately  eluded  Broadway. 
There  have  been  rumours  from  time  to  time  that 
she  would  appear  in  English,  a  language  with 
which,  I  believe,  she  is  tolerably  familiar,  but  up  to 
now  (and  I  hope  the  time  will  never  come)  she  has 
not  forsaken  the  darling  theatres  of  the  Italian 
purlieus  of  New  York.  She  has  occasionally,  to 
be  sure,  invaded  Broadway,  but  such  invasions 
have  been  accomplished  surreptitiously  and  under 
the  very  conditions  of  her  downtown  appearances, 
that  is,  with  an  Italian  company,  Italian  stage  dec- 
orations, and  a  prompter. 

When,  therefore,  you  go  to  see  Signora  Aguglia, 
you  go  to  see  her  under  pretty  nearly  ideal  con- 
[288] 


Mimi   Agu  glia 


ditions,  with  an  audience  that  understands  Italian, 
that  admires,  nay  venerates,  her  performances,  but 
which  does  not  regard  her  as  a  freak,  and  that 
primarily  attends  the  theatre  to  see  a  play.  She 
appears  in  pieces  by  d'Annunzio,  Giacosa,  Shakes- 
peare, and  other  authors  whose  names  are  not 
overly  popular  on  Broadway.  A  curious  fact 
about  a  typical  Bowery  audience  of  Jews  or  Ital- 
ians is  that  it  would  just  as  soon  see  a  good  play 
as  a  bad  one.  It  is  even  reasonable  to  believe  that 
these  people  prefer  good  plays. 

Unless,  however,  you  happen  to  live  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  one  of  the  theatrical  temples  which  the 
signora  adorns  with  her  art,  you  will  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  follow  her  movements.  She  may,  indeed, 
be  playing  under  your  very  nose  without  your  be- 
ing aware  of  the  fact,  unless  you  read  the  Italian 
newspapers.  As  for  myself,  I  have  a  habit  of 
wandering  down  unfrequented  streets,  sometimes  in 
search  of  a  new  eating-place,  sometimes  in  search 
of  books;  and  in  these  streets,  in  the  windows  of 
hairdressers  or  macaroni  merchants,  or  displayed 
prominently  on  the  walls  of  pastry-shops,  which, 
as  any  one  who  has  lived  in  Naples  knows,  are  the 
Italian  clubs,  the  gathering  places  for  neighbour- 
hood gossip,  such  as  our  saloons  afforded  to  our 
working  men  until  our  kindly-disposed  government 
[289] 


Mimi   Agu  glia 


decided  that  only  rich  men  should  have  clubs  in 
this  country,  you  may  see  posters  announcing  the 
"  tragica  Italiana,"  and  telling  you  where  and 
when  and  in  what  you  may  see  her  if  you  have  the 
desire. 

Usually  a  tour  of  Spring  and  Sullivan  streets 
would  give  you  this  information  if  Mimi  Aguglia 
were  in  town,  but  recently  I  was  startled  by  run- 
ning into  an  announcement  on  One  Hundred  and 
Twenty-fifth  Street.  If  you  happen  to  be  a  book 
collector,  you  may  not  be  unaware  that  there  is  a 
row  of  old  bookshops  on  this  Harlem  thorough- 
fare, running  from  Eighth  Avenue  to  the  New 
York  Central  Railroad  tracks.  A  strange  place 
for  bookshops  this,  mingled  with  the  homely  life 
of  Harlem,  fish  and  vegetable  markets,  flashy  hab- 
erdashers' shops,  old  and  new  furniture  stores, 
cheap  lunch  counters,  the  Hotel  Theresa,  Pabst 
Harlem,  moving-picture  houses,  and  drug  stores, 
the  windows  piled  high  with  scented  soaps.  The 
external  impression  one  gets  is  that  Harlem  never 
reads.  Nevertheless,  several  of  these  bookshops 
are  large,  and  all  seem  to  flourish. 

Walking,  then,  from  a  tour  of  these  shops  to  the 

Third    Avenue    Elevated,    I   passed    the   Gotham 

Theatre,  a  playhouse  with  which  I  had  hitherto 

been  unacquainted,  and  discovered  that  on  the  fol- 

[290] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


lowing  Saturda}^  night  Mimi  Aguglia  would  begin 
her  Harlem  season  with  a  performance  of  Oscar 
Wilde's  Salome,  to  be  followed  by  a  Sicilian  com- 
edy called  Mamma  Rosa.  The  doors  of  the  the- 
atre w^ere  nailed  fast,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  way 
of  purchasing  tickets  in  advance,  and  so  on  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday,  with  those  who  accompanied  me, 
I  was  on  hand  at  a  little  after  six  to  book  places, 
which  I  secured  in  the  tenth  row. 

Then  we  sought  dinner  in  a  near-by  restaurant, 
a  dinner  which  I  can  still  recall  with  disgust ;  there 
was  a  lukewarm,  thin,  clam  chowder  which  would 
have  passed  for  dirty  dishwater  anywhere,  a  leath- 
ery finnan  haddie,  an  inedible  chunk  of  apple  pie, 
weak  beer,  and  unmentionable  coffee.  I  cannot 
say  that  I  was  in  the  best  of  humours  after  this 
repast.  Better  dinners  have  spoiled  an  evening 
for  me.  We  had  been  told  that  the  play  would 
begin  at  eight-thirty  and,  as  in  the  theatres  of* 
the  purlieus  there  are  often  discussions  about 
tickets  even  if  you  possess  checks  for  your  seats, 
we  were  in  our  places  by  eight-fifteen.  The  the- 
atre was  large  and  painted  a  brilliant  green,  with 
a  great  deal  of  gold  decoration.  The  seats  were 
upholstered  in  red  plush.  The  chandelier  was  a 
gorgeous  monstrosity  of  brass  branches  bearing, 
in  lieu  of  fruit  or  flowers,  an  infinitude  of  electric 
[291] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


globes  of  many  hues.  There  was  no  heat  in  this 
pretty  playhouse  on  this  cold  November  night,  no 
heat  at  all.  The  place  was  icy  cold,  a  cold  which 
the  green  walls  seemed  to  emphasize.  Indeed,  I 
had  the  impression  of  being  imprisoned  in  a  great 
green  iceberg.  We  wrapped  ourselves  tightly  in 
our  coats  and  suffered.  .  .  .  The  play  did  not 
begin  at  eight-thirty,  nor  yet  at  nine;  it  was  in- 
deed nearly  nine-thirty  before  the  curtain  rose. 
Meanwhile,  a  young  woman  and  a  young  man  tor- 
tured, respectively,  a  piano  and  a  violin :  an  hour 
of  Rossini,  of  Hearts  and  FlowerSy  of  Faust,  of 
Traviata:  an  hour  of  scraping  and  pounding  and 
thumping  and  groping  and  conscientious  din.  The 
audience  became  impatient,  and  whistled  and 
stamped  and  applauded;  all  to  no  end,  and  each 
separate  and  good-natured  person  in  this  audience 
knew  it  would  be  to  no  end,  for  Italians  never  do 
anything  on  time. 

Nevertheless,  may  I  state  that  two  minutes  after 
the  curtain  had  risen  I  had  forgotten  my  bad  din- 
ner, forgotten  the  cold,  forgotten  the  long  wait, 
forgotten  the  horrible  music  .^^  Need  I  say  more 
for  the  compelling  power  of  Mimi  Aguglia? 

The  audience,  as  always  in  the  Italian  theatre, 
was  delightful.  As  I  have  intimated,  these  people 
came  to  see  a  play,  not  a  shocking  drama  by  a 


Mimi   Aguglia 


social  outcast  named  Oscar  Wilde,  who  went  to  jail 
for  his  sins  and  died  a  miserable  death  in  Paris.  I 
venture  to  say  that  not  ten  individuals  in  that 
crowded  theatre,  which,  by  the  way,  is  bigger  than 
most  of  the  downtown  theatres,  were  in  possession 
of  any  background  whatever  in  regard  to  this 
piece.  Probably  not  ten  out  of  fifteen  hundred 
had  ever  heard  of  Oscar  Wilde  or  knew  anything 
about  the  play  itself,  except  that  it  was  a  "  biblica 
tragedia  "  (the  program  and  the  posters  said  so 
much)  and  that  Mimi  Aguglia  would  appear  in  it. 
No  hysteria  of  shuddering  repugnance  informed 
this  mob,  as  we  have  been  told  informed  that  other 
mob  which  watched  and  listened  to  Olive  Fremstad 
in  Richard  Strauss's  music  drama  one  Sunday 
morning  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  and 
which  filed  out  to  register  a  solemn  protest  against 
the  exhibition  in  this  sacred  temple  of  art  of  a 
"  toad  upon  lilies."  .  .  .  Young  mothers  were 
there  with  their  babes  ;  they  suckled  them,  if  nature 
so  demanded.  Young  girls  were  there,  with  lovely 
black  hair  and  gold  earrings ;  children  were  there, 
and  grandmothers.  They  had  come  to  see  a  play. 
They  applauded  Aguglia  when  she  entered;  they 
applauded  vehemently  at  the  close  of  the  drama, 
and  recalled  the  protagonist  several  times,  but 
they  did  not  rush  into  the  lobby  to  consort  in 
[293] 


Mimi   Agu  glia 


strange  groups  to  whisper  about  its  indelicacies. 
No,  to  this  audience  Salome  was  nothing  "  curious 
and  sensual";  it  was  just  a  play. 

Of  all  the  conventions  of  the  Italian  theatre  the 
prompter,  perhaps,  is  the  most  conspicuously 
esoteric  to  American  eyes  and  ears.  He  sits  in  a 
huge  box,  like  an  inverted  chariot,  in  the  centre  of 
the  row  of  footlights,  which  is  supposed  to  conceal 
him,  but  often,  in  his  excitement,  his  head  pro- 
trudes, like  that  of  a  turtle  from  its  shell,  or  his 
arms,  for  sometimes  he  gesticulates,  the  book  in 
his  hand!  In  any  performance  his  voice  is  audi- 
ble, extremely  audible ;  so  that  there  is  a  likelihood 
that  you  will  hear  every  line  of  the  piece  twice,  for 
his  office  is  not  to  prompt  failing  memories,  but, 
rather,  to  give  a  line  to  an  actor  who  may  not  have 
memorized  it  before.  Therefore  the  Italian 
prompter  reads  every  line  of  the  play.  I  have 
known  instances  (the  big  scene  in  the  fourth  act 
of  Zaza  comes  to  mind)  when  the  actors  in  their 
fury  outstripped  him  by  several  speeches.  But  no 
self-respecting  prompter  is  daunted  by  such  a  sit- 
uation. Conscientiously  he  continues  to  read 
every  line,  and  in  time  catches  up  with  and  even 
passes  by  the  actors  themselves.  The  effect  is 
curious,  and  to  some  people  it  renders  perform- 
ances in  the  Italian  theatre  intolerable.  For  my- 
[294] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


self,  I  may  say  that  either  I  ignore  the  presence 
of  the  prompter  entirely,  as  when  the  acting  is 
good  enough  to  make  me  forget  it,  or  else  I  find 
myself  reflecting  on  the  philosophy  of  the  institu- 
tion. It  is  almost,  indeed,  as  if  the  poet  himself 
were  reading  his  play  to  the  actors,  who  immedi- 
ately grasp  his  lines  and  transmute  them  into  emo- 
tional speech  accompanied  by  gesture.  With  some 
such  explanation  you  may  easily  persuade  yourself 
that  the  spontaneity  and  adaptability  and  real 
power  of  the  Italian  actor  far  transcend  that  of 
the  player  of  any  other  nation. 

In  some  plays,  notably  in  Sicilian  pieces,  or  in 
such  modern  dramas  as  Zaza  or  Madame  X,  the 
unnamed  (for  the  program  does  not  list  them) 
thespians  that  Signora  Aguglia  gathers  around 
her  give  a  great  deal  more  than  adequate  perform- 
ances. They  are  often  atmospheric,  suggestive, 
and  emotionally  sincere.  Salome,  however,  was 
somewhat  beyond  the  group  I  saw  on  this  occasion. 
The  page  of  Herodias,  played  by  a  woman  in  a 
sort  of  Viola  costume  with  high  gaiters,  was  a 
ridiculous  figure;  Narraboth,  a  stolid  pink  body; 
Herod,  an  incredible  monstrosity  in  a  Roman 
toga;  and  Herodias,  in  a  mid- Victorian  Greek 
gown  cut  low  over  the  shoulders,  with  a  diadem  on 
her  head,  for  all  the  world  like  an  old  print  of  Mrs. 
[295] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


Somebody  or  Other  as  Lady  Macbeth.  There 
was,  to  be  sure,  a  real  Negro  as  the  headsman,  but 
he  not  only  had  to  receive  the  command  given  by 
the  pla3rwright,  but  also  whispered  instructions  as 
to  where  to  descend,  and  what  to  do  when  he  got 
to  the  bottom  of  the  cistern.  There  were  no  signs 
of  stage  direction ;  I  doubt  if  there  had  been  a 
rehearsal.  The  scenery,  evidently,  had  been  bor- 
rowed from  an  Italian  opera  company  which  had 
been  giving  Aida^  pieced  out  with  stock  wood 
scenes,  thrones,  etc.  Herodias,  finding  herself 
without  a  throne,  bade  one  of  the  attendants  bring 
her  a  kitchen  chair.  .  .  .  The  play  was  consider- 
ably and  advantageously  cut.  The  Jews  did  not 
appear,  and  the  Romans  had  little  to  do.  Herod's 
speeches  were  chopped  and  hacked  to  pieces.  And 
yet,  bad  dinner,  cold  theatre,  long  wait,  prompter, 
bad  stage  direction,  bad  scenery,  bad  costumes, 
bad  actors  and  all,  I  may  say  without  qualifica- 
tion that  this  was  the  most  effective  performance 
of  Salome  I  have  ever  seen,  and  one  of  the  great 
evenings  I  have  spent  in  the  theatre.  And  for  this 
satisfaction  I  must  thank  Mimi  Aguglia. 

Of  such  a  performance  a  mere  description  of 

costume,  gesture,  and  voice  means  very  little.     By 

such  a  process,  how  could  I  hope  to  recapture  the 

electricity  of  Aguglia.^  ...  I  doubt  if  Aguglia 

[296] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


herself  knows  why  or  how  she  does  certain  things. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  curious  phenomena  of  the 
art  of  acting.  Given  a  suspicion  of  genius,  a  plan 
of  attack,  precision,  authority,  foresight,  and  sym- 
pathy, and  the  accidental  gestures,  or  expedient 
gestures,  fall  into  place  and  become  essential  parts 
of  the  interpretation.  .  .  .  The  successor  of 
Faure  was  not  successful  in  the  part  of  Hamlet  at 
the  Paris  Opera.  He  appealed  to  his  great  prede- 
cessor :  "  I  have  carefully  studied  you  in  the  part ; 
what  have  I  forgotten  to  do  ?  "  Faure  explained : 
on  the  opening  night,  finding  his  throat  clogged  at 
an  important  moment,  he  had  turned  aside  and 
spat  into  his  handkerchief,  but  to  the  audience  the 
gesture  suggested  deep  emotion,  and  it  was  greeted 
with  a  wave  of  applause.  Thereafter  Faure  con- 
tinued to  do  intentionally  what  he  had  first  done 
accidentally.  ...  So  in  Salome's  long  silent  scene, 
between  the  entrance  of  the  king  and  the  dance, 
Aguglia's  action  provoked  the  most  excited  com- 
ment from  us.  It  was  open  to  many  interpreta- 
tions, but  of  one  thing  all  of  us  were  agreed,  it  was 
absolutely  right.  Salome  Aguglia,  repulsed  by 
Jochanaan,  in  the  depths  of  despair,  suddenly 
started  and  threw  back  her  head  when  the  tetrarch 
entered.  Did  this  signify  merely  the  breaking  of 
her  mood,  or  did  she  then  and  there  decide  that  it 
[297] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


would  be  through  Herod  she  would  be  enabled  to 
fulfil  her  desire?  Later,  long  before  she  promised 
to  dance,  she  began  to  denude  herself  of  her  golden 
chains  and  her  jewels.  Had  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  accede  to  the  king's  request,  or  was  she  tossing 
her  jewels  off  absent-mindedly  while  she  thought 
of  the  prophet ;  or  was  she  imagining  herself  as  his 
jewelless  companion  in  the  wilderness?  It  is  pos- 
sible, indeed  probable,  that  Aguglia  thought  none 
of  these  things.  It  is  very  likely  that,  with  the 
practical  carelessness  incidental  to  the  Italian  the- 
atre, while  she  was  waiting  she  was  preparing  for 
the  dance  which  was  to  follow.  All  that  I  mean  to 
indicate  is  that  these  possibly  careless  gestures 
became  almost  great  moments  in  the  rhythm  of  the 
interpretation. 

What  a  voice  the  woman  has,  now  rich  and  full 
with  the  notes  of  the  viola  da  gamba,  now  petulant 
and  querulous  like  a  clarinet,  now  rude  and 
raucous  like  a  bassoon!  How  well  she  plays  on 
this  superior  instrument.  In  her  scene  with  Nar- 
raboth  he  stood  well  up  stage  facing  the  audience. 
She  played  the  scene  with  her  back  to  the  foot- 
lights ;  her  whole  effect  was  made  with  her  voice 
and  the  sensuous  curve  of  her  spine.  So,  too,  she 
played  most  of  the  following  scene  with  Jocha- 
naan,  who  by  the  way,  never  left  the  well.  The 
[298] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


cistern  was  built  high,  so  that  Salome  might  lean 
on  it  with  her  elbows  while  standing,  an  effect 
which  might  be  imitated  to  advantage  in  more  pre- 
tentious productions  of  this  play.  John  lifted  him- 
self until  his  waist  line  was  visible  and  then  stood 
still,  braced  by  his  hands,  his  lower  body  con- 
cealed, while  she  played  the  scene  about  him.  All 
this  was  marvellously  mellow,  marvellously  plas- 
tic, extraordinarily  intriguing,  and  there  was  no 
let-down  in  the  crescendo  of  this  performance. 

Aguglia,  as  Salome,  wore  a  wig  of  long,  red  hair 
and  a  trailing,  transparent  robe  of  tarnished  sil- 
ver, heavily  embroidered  in  jewels.  Her  feet  were 
incased  in  stilted  sandals.  For  the  dance  she  re- 
moved the  outer  garment  and  disclosed  herself  in 
the  quaintest  of  gold  tissue  trousers  decorated 
with  the  most  fantastic  bows  of  tied  varicoloured 
ribbons.  Above  the  bare  abdomen  she  wore  a 
short  bolero  jacket  of  gold  and  tassels.  The 
dance  was  oriental,  and  centred  in  the  stomach. 
.  .  .  She  made  the  first  request  for  the  head  on  a 
silver  platter  in  a  fittingly  simple  manner,  but 
from  then  on  she  absolutely  defied  tradition.  In- 
stead of  becoming  angrier  and  more  forceful,  with 
each  succeeding  request  she  became  more  careless 
and  childlike,  running  back  and  forth  from  the 
well,  wrapping  her  veils  about  her,  paying  no  heed 
[299] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


whatever  to  the  pleadings  of  the  tetrarch,  simply 
reiterating,  "  Give  me  the  head  of  Jochanaan,"  not 
in  a  monotonous  monotone,  not  with  impatience, 
but  with  the  ingenuous  persistence  of  a  spoiled 
child.  Her  antepenultimate  repetition  of  the 
words  was  made  with  such  legerity  that  the  effect 
was  almost  too  great  to  be  borne  in  the  theatre. 
I  felt  that  the  trumpets  had  blown  and  the  walls 
of  Jericho  were  falling,  or  that  Samson  was  pull- 
ing the  temple  down  around  me.  .  .  .  Only  the 
last  time  was  she  paramount,  and  Herod,  startled 
by  the  sudden  change  of  tone,  yielded  at  once. 

The  scene  with  the  head  was  conceived  as  some- 
thing elementally  sensuous,  and  was  carried 
through  unflinchingly.  I  suppose  a  chaste  Broad- 
way audience  would  have  been  shocked  into  getting 
thoroughly  drunk  in  all  available  resorts  before 
the  night  following  such  an  interpretation  was 
over.  Aguglia  had  bound  herself  in  a  long,  blue 
veil  with  thick  meshes,  wrapped  it  about  her  head, 
her  face,  her  shoulders,  her  breast,  and  her  thighs, 
but  when  the  charger  with  its  burden  was  given  her 
the  veil  fell  from  her  face,  and  on  her  knees  before 
the  head  of  Jochanaan  she  gradually  unwound  it 
from  her  body:  the  symbol  of  disrobing  was  ob- 
vious. Then  she  took  the  head  from  the  charger 
and  began  pushing  it  about,  following  it  on  her 
[SOO] 


Mimi   Aguglia 


knees  from  one  side  of  the  stage  to  the  other,  with 
little  cries  of  delight,  little  exclamations  of  joy, 
little  amorous  coos,  and  finally  came  the  embrace, 
in  which  everything  was  left  to  the  imagination, 
because  nothing  was !  The  death  was  epileptic,  a 
lesson  learned  probably  from  seeing  Nijinsky  die 
in  Scheherazade. 

We  stayed  for  the  beginning  of  Mamma  Rosa, 
long  enough  to  see  a  little  of  a  very  different 
Aguglia,  with  her  own  black  hair,  in  a  peasant 
dress,  walking  like  a  peasant,  uttering  comic  lines 
in  a  Sicilian  dialect,  with  an  utterly  different  vocal 
apparatus,  and  for  the  audience  this  was  just 
another  play,  and  they  enjoyed  it  almost  as  much 
as  they  had  Salome, 

November  28,  1918. 


[aoi] 


II 

Farfariello 


ONE  day,  conversing  with  a  young  man  who 
professes  to  know  a  great  deal  about  the 
New  York  theatre  I  casually,  and  perhaps 
a  little  maliciously,  let  slip  the  name,  Farfariello. 
Who  is  Farfariello?  my  friend  enquired,  not 
wholly  to  my  surprise,  for  if  a  questionnaire  in 
which:  Who  is  Farfariello?  was  the  key  question, 
were  put  into  the  hands  of  an  audience  at  a 
Belasco  premiere  probably  not  more  than  two 
people  in  the  house  would  be  able  to  make  even  a 
vague  reply.  I  doubt,  however,  if  there  is  a  single 
Italian  in  New  York  —  and  are  there  not  more 
Italians  here  than  in  Rome?  —  who  would  not  gen- 
uflect before  the  name,  the  name  behind  which 
Eduardo  Migliaccio  has  become  U  re  del  macchiet- 
tisti. 

Come  with  me  on  a  Saturday  or  Sunday  night, 
for  Farfariello  is  not  to  be  heard  on  every  night  of 
the  week.  .  .  .  We  are  in  one  of  the  delightful 
old  Bowery  theatres  with  its  sweeping  horseshoe 
balcony  and  its  orchestra  sloping  gracefully  up  to 
the  orchestra  circle,  a  charming  old  theatre  of  a 
[30a] 


Farf  ariello 


kind  in  which  it  was  possible  for  the  audience  to  be 
as  brilliant  as  the  play;  our  theatres  today  are 
constructed  on  the  principle  that  it  is  more  impor- 
tant for  the  spectators  to  see  the  play  than  each 
other.  .  .  .  The  traditions  of  the  house  have 
changed  but  its  picturesque  qualities  have  not  been 
disturbed  in  the  transformation.  Now  the  thea- 
tre is  filled  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and 
women,  working  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  for  it  is 
summer,  women  with  black  hair  parted  over  their 
oval  olive  faces  suckling  their  babies,  or  with  half- 
nude  infants  lying  over  their  knees.  Boys  in  white 
coats,  with  baskets  of  multi-coloured  pop  and  other 
forms  of  soda  water,  pass  up  and  down  the  aisles, 
seeking  customers,  and  you  see  mothers  and  chil- 
dren, young  girls  with  their  young  men,  grey- 
haired  grandmothers  tightly  bound  in  thick  black 
shawls  in  spite  of  the  heat,  sipping  the  red  and 
pink  and  yellow  pop  through  long  straws  directly 
from  the  bottles.  In  a  box  a  corpulent  gentleman 
fingers  his  watch  chain  stretched  across  his  ample 
paunch.  All  this  observed  in  the  smoky  half-light 
of  the  darkened  theatre,  for  the  performance  is 
going  on,  is  to  the  highest  degree  picturesque. 
George  Bellows  or  Degas  would  begin  to  paint  at 
once.  ...  A  man  and  woman  have  just  finished 
singing  a  duet  from  The  Count  of  Lwxemhurg  and 
[303] 


Farf  ariello 


have  left  the  stage.  Now,  without  a  second's 
pause,  a  deft  but  coatless  stage  attendant  slips 
past  the  proscenium  arch  and  changes  the  placard 
of  announcement  on  the  easel.  The  new  placard 
contains  a  single  word: 

FARFARIELLO 

Violent  applause  sweeps  over  the  playhouse  and 
perhaps  the  babies  howl  a  little  louder.  Then,  as 
their  mothers,  in  an  effort  to  quiet  them,  rock  them 
to  and  fro  in  their  arms,  the  orchestra  strikes  up 
a  tripping  tune  and  Farfariello  appears  in  evening 
clothes.  He  walks  to  the  footlights  and  announces 
his  first  song,  Fevfnnene-Fe,  a  trifle  about  women, 
with  a  pretty  refrain  which  he  sings  with  a  pleas- 
ant baritone  voice.  This  unexpectedly  common- 
place beginning  is  one  of  the  subtleties  of  Farfar- 
iello's  art.  The  song  over,  he  leaves  the  stage; 
the  applause  is  perfunctory ;  the  crowd  knows  that 
it  must  allow  its  idol  time  to  prepare  himself  for 
his  first  impersonation.  .  .  .  The  orchestra  stops 
playing.  Chatter  simmers  up  through  the  smoky 
atmosphere ;  the  babies  are  permitted  to  cry 
freely ;  the  pop  vendors  pass  back  and  forth.  But 
the  hubbub  dies  away  as  the  orchestra  begins  a 
new  tune.  A  transformed  Farfariello  enters; 
from  hair  to  shoes  he  is  a  French  concert-hall 
[304] 


Farf  ariello 


singer  of  the  type  familiar  at  Coney  Island.  He 
has  transfigured  his  eyes ;  his  nose  is  new ;  gesture, 
voice,  all  his  powers,  physical  and  mental,  are 
moulded  in  a  new  metal.  He  shrieks  his  vapid 
ditty  in  raucous  falsetto ;  he  flicks  his  spangled 
skirt ;  he  winks  at  the  orchestra  leader  and  shakes 
his  buttocks;  his  bosom  has  become  an  enormous 
jelly.  .  .  .  Again  he  has  gone  but  soon  the  figure 
of  an  Italian  patriot  appears,  a  large  florid  person 
with  heavy  hair  and  moustaches.  Across  his  chest, 
over  his  shoulder,  and  ending  in  a  sash  at  his  hip, 
he  wears  the  tricolour  of  Italy.  Farfariello 
paints  the  man  in  action:  he  is  for  ever  marching 
in  parades  (the  moment  when  he  falls  out  of  step 
always  arouses  a  hot  chill  of  appreciation  in  me  i)  ; 
he  is  for  ever  making  speeches  at  banquets ;  he  is 
for  ever  shouting.  Viva  Italia!  Like  all  good  cari- 
catures this  is  not  only  a  comment  on  the  thing 
itself,  it  is  the  thing  itself.  And  as  this  portrait 
is  essentially  provincial  it  thereby  passes  easily 
into  the  universal  apprehension.  We  all  know  this 
man  in  some  guise  or  other.  .  .  .  Farfariello  goes 
on,  singing,  acting,  impersonating.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
next  he  becomes  a  bersagliere,  perhaps  a  Spanish 
dancer,  perhaps  a  funeral  director,  or  a  night- 
watchman,  or  an  Italian  nurse-girl.  .  .  .  He  may 
sing  Pasquale  Basciamento,  Rosali/na,  Patsy, 
[305] 


Farf  ariello 


Quanno  Spusaie  Francisco,  or  '0  Richiamato,  but 
always  at  the  end  he  is  the  iceman.  The  applause 
grows  wilder  and  wilder,  the  shouts  more  thunder- 
ous, as  his  half-hour  dwindles  away,  and  sooner  or 
later,  mingled  with  the  hravos  are  cries  of  "  Ice- 
man! Iceman !  "  this  iceman  who  sings  folk-songs 
of  his  native  land  to  amuse  his  customers,  who  for- 
get their  empty  ice-boxes  while  they  listen  to  him. 
Of  all  Farfariello's  numbers  this  is  the  most  popu- 
lar and  perhaps  deservedly  so  for  to  his  Italians  it 
suggests  both  home  and  the  adopted  country. 

More  than  any  other  interpreter  before  the  pub- 
lic —  if  I  except  Yvette  Guilbert  —  Farfariello 
has  made  his  own  material,  created  the  stuff  in 
which  he  works.  This  is  his  greatest  claim  to 
interest.  Like  a  novelist  he  goes  to  the  people 
themselves  for  his  inspiration.  His  characters 
are  almost  all  of  them  typical  Italian  figures  in 
America,  not  the  Italians  of  Naples,  Venice,  or 
Rome,  but  the  immigrant,  the  Italian  as  he  behaves 
in  his  new  environment  under  new  conditions,  in 
new  occupations.  Once  having  selected  his  model 
(or  models,  for  often  he  combines  the  outstanding 
features  of  a  dozen  types)  he  writes  his  own  songs, 
arranges  his  own  gestures,  designs  his  own  cos- 
tumes, and  even  makes  his  own  wigs.  This  last 
detail  amazed  me  when  I  learned  of  it.  It  would 
[306] 


Farf  ariello 


seem  that  Farfariello,  without  perhaps  having 
heard  of  Gordon  Craig,  is  exactly  following  out 
Craig's  idea  of  the  artist  of  the  theatre  who  is  to 
be  and  do  everything.  All  that  remains  for  Far- 
fariello is  to  paint  his  own  scenery  and  write  his 
own  music!  A  practical  reason  dictated  the  wig 
making.  He  found  that  for  each  of  his  songs  he 
would  need  a  different  head  of  hair  and  in  his  early 
days  the  price  of  wigs  exceeded  the  weight  in  his 
purse.  So  he  apprenticed  himself  to  a  wig  maker 
and  worked  diligently  at  that  trade  all  day  while 
at  night  he  sang  in  the  old  Bowery  concert  halls. 
"  Now  I  can  make  wigs  as  well  as  any  one,"  he 
says  .  .  .  and  he  can  exhibit  his  collection  in 
proof.  His  masks,  too,  which  form  part  of  his 
disguise,  are  of  his  own  devising.  They  are  clev- 
erly contrived  with  strips  of  elastic  so  that  they 
will  not  interfere  with  facial  expression.  The 
muscles  of  his  face  are  as  free  while  he  is  using  a 
mask  as  they  are  when  his  face  is  naked. 

Eduardo  Migliaccio  was  born  thirty-eight  years 
ago  in  the  same  small  town  in  Southern  Italy  where 
Enrico  Caruso  was  born  seven  years  or  so  earlier. 
It  is  possible  he  was  born  in  the  same  street.  Such 
matters  are  soon  forgotten  in  rural  Italy.  Com- 
ing to  America  twenty  years  ago  at  the  age  of 
eighteen  he  went  to  work  as  a  clerk  in  a  banking 
[307] 


Farf  ariello 


establishment.  At  night  he  visited  the  concert 
halls  .  .  .  such  places  as  the  old  Atlantic  Garden 
on  the  Bowery  .  .  .  where  for  the  price  of  a  glass 
of  beer  he  could  listen  to  some  heavy  comic  or 
watch  the  pitiful  antics  of  some  bedizened  hussy 
who  smiled  painfully  as  she  waved  her  sodden  legs. 
One  night  he  asked  the  proprietor  of  such  a  place 
how  much  he  paid  his  entertainers  and  was  told 
that  they  earned  $8  a  week.  Migliaccio  had  a 
voice  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  might  make  $8 
more  easily  in  a  concert  hall  than  in  a  bank.  And 
so  the  re  dei  macchiettisti  began  his  career,  in  a 
small  room  behind  a  Bowery  saloon,  frequented 
by  his  compatriots.  At  first  he  sang  Neapolitan 
folk  and  popular  songs,  imitating  types  he  had  ob- 
served in  Southern  Italy,  but  although  he  was  suc- 
cessful from  the  beginning  he  soon  found  that  his 
audiences  showed  their  wildest  delight  when  he 
impersonated  some  local  figure. 

And  so  he  gradually  evolved  them,  Italian  po- 
licemen, Italian  nurse-girls,  Italian  ice-men,  boot- 
blacks, undertakers,  politicians,  bankers,  mid- 
wives,  all  the  familiar  figures  of  New  York's  Little 
Italy,  caught  first  in  satiric  verse  and  then  com- 
pletely characterized  in  costume,  makeup,  and  ges- 
ture. Satiric  verse,  I  say,  but  never  offensive. 
Benevolent  good-humour  is  the  keynote  of  his  im- 
[308] 


Farf  ariello 


personations  and  even  his  models  laugh  at  the  cari- 
catures of  themselves.  Farf  ariello  completely 
transforms  his  appearance  for  his  several  roles. 
Every  detail  of  his  costume  is  studied,  stockings, 
shoes,  neckties,  and  hats  included.  His  face  goes 
through  an  alembic ;  a  new  nose  is  added  or  a  pair 
of  shaggy  eyebrows,  or  a  complete  mask.  Each 
of  his  characters  has  a  distinct  walk,  a  distinct  use 
of  the  hands,  and  his  hands  are  marvellous  in  their 
expressiveness.  Because  scarcely  one  of  his  men 
and  women  speaks  Italian  Farfariello  has  found  it 
necessary  to  learn  at  least  five  dialects.  In  the 
past  twenty  years  he  tells  me  that  he  has  "  cre- 
ated "  ( as  he  writes  his  own  songs,  invents  his  own 
disguises  and  gestures  this  word  can  be  legiti- 
mately applied  to  his  interpretations)  over  a  thou- 
sand of  these  characters  and  at  the  present  time 
he  has  a  repertory  of  two  hundred  and  fifty.  You 
will  find  it  difficult,  indeed,  not  to  meet  new  people 
each  time  you  see  him. 

His  name,  Farfariello,  came  to  him  accidentally. 
It  is  the  name  of  a  very  popular  song  which  he 
sang  early  in  his  career  and  which  his  audiences 
always  redemanded,  so  often  indeed  that  it  became 
confused  with  its  interpreter  and  they  shouted 
"  Farfariello  "  merely  to  indicate  that  they  wanted 
him  to  come  back  and  sing  another  number.  In  a 
[809] 


Farf  ariello 


short  time  he  graduated  from  the  concert  halls  and 
came  into  the  theatres.  Now  his  name  in  front 
of  the  door  of  any  Italian  theatre  in  America  — 
and  he  has  appeared  as  far  west  as  San  Fran- 
cisco —  assures  a  manager  a  sold-out  house.  To 
the  Italians  of  this  country  he  is  as  well-known 
a  singer  as  Caruso,  who  by  the  way,  is  his  friend. 
He  occasionally  impersonates  this  tenor  and  when 
he  is  in  good  falsetto  form  he  is  even  equal  to  Luisa 
Tetrazzini's  florid  song. 

He  has  been  fortunate  in  finding  a  musician. 
Professor  Giovanni  di  Colle,  who  gives  his  songs 
very  adequate  accompaniments.  The  music  is  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  the  mood  of  his  genre  pictures. 
It  has  distinction  and  a  certain  very  delightful  if 
somewhat  incongruous  eighteenth  century  flavour. 
It  ripples  along  pleasantly  in  runs  and  figurations, 
never,  however,  obscuring  Farfariello's  intention. 
It  is  simply  a  very  charming  background. 

Farfariello  has  been  wise  to  refrain  from  at- 
tempting to  make  a  place  for  himself  in  an  Ameri- 
can music  hall  although  he  has  been  invited  to  do 
so.  It  is  impossible  to  think  of  his  songs  trans- 
lated and  even  in  English  he  would  not  be  under- 
stood by  the  devotees  of  "  vaudeville."  His  appeal 
is  made  directly  to  the  very  people  he  character- 
izes or  caricatures.  Almost  every  one  of  his  types 
[310] 


Farf  ariello 


is  present  in  his  audiences  every  night,  and  they 
have  some  appreciation  for  the  care  he  devotes  to 
his  impersonations,  the  reverence  he  feels  for  his 
art.  His  reward  is  complete  understanding,  a 
wave  of  personal  feeling  that  destroys  the  barrier 
of  the  footlights.  It  is  a  reward  which  is  be- 
stowed on  few  interpreters. 
October  14,  1918, 


[311] 


Ill 

The  Negro  Theatre 


WHEN  I  was  twenty-one  the  wonderful 
Williams  and  Walker  Company  was  in 
full  blast  and  bloom.  The  two  comedi- 
ans headed  a  large  troupe  of  blacks  and  offered 
musical  entertainment  in  a  sense  sophisticated  but 
which  did  not  dilute  the  essential  charm,  the  primi- 
tive appeal  of  the  Negro.  There  were  reminis- 
cences of  the  plantation,  reminiscences  of  the  old 
minstrel  days,  and  capital  portraits  of  the  new 
coon,  who  was  in  those  days  a  real  figure  and  not  a 
myth  like  the  new  woman,  who  as  Agnes  Repplier 
has  pointed  out  in  an  amusing  paper,  has  been  in 
existence  since  the  days  of  Eve.  This  organization 
must  have  travelled  extensively,  though  I  saw  it 
only  in  Chicago,  for  I  remember  the  posters  which 
covered  the  South  Side  fencings  and  hoardings, 
picturing  Williams  and  Walker  appearing  at 
Windsor,  hy  royal  cormnand^  and  Williams  and 
Walker  meeting  Queen  Victoria  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  I  am  almost  certain  that  one  picture 
showed  us  the  pair  taking  tea  with  royalty,  but  to 
this  I  cannot  swear.  These  were  the  days  of  Sons 
of  Ham  and  Abyssinia.  .  .  .  Bert  Williams  shuf- 
[31£] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

fled  along  in  his  hopeless  way ;  always  penniless,  al- 
ways the  butt  of  fortune,  and  always  human.  He 
reblackened  his  face,  enlarged  his  mouth,  wore 
shoes  which  extended  beyond  the  limits  of  even  ex- 
traordinary feet,  but  he  never  transcended  the  pre- 
cise lines  of  characterization.  He  was  as  definite 
as  Mansfield,  as  subtle  as  Coquelin.  Duse  saw  him 
on  one  of  her  American  tours  and  promptly  de- 
cided he  was  America's  finest  actor.  His  panto- 
mimic powers  were  great  and  for  their  exploitation 
he  relied  almost  entirely  on  his  eyes  and  his  hands, 
with  the  occasional  aid  of  a  bracing  smile.  In  his 
poker  game,  for  example,  he  developed  a  scene, 
without  speaking  a  single  word,  which  was  enjoy- 
able even  to  those  spectators  who  did  not  play 
cards.  To  have  heard  him  sing  /  jimy  he  crazy  hut 
I  ain't  no  fool.  The  phrenologist  coon.  All  goin*  out 
and  nothin*  comin*  in  or  the  inimitable  Nohody  was 
to  have  heard  and  seen  something  as  fine  in  its  way 
as  the  contemporary  theatre  had  to  offer.  Tobias 
Wormwood,  Jasmine  Jenkins,  whatever  character 
he  assumed,  left  us  trembling  between  hysterical 
laughter  and  sudden  tears.  .  .  .  George  Walker, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  Rastus  Johnson,  the  Harty 
Lafter,  was  the  spick  and  span  Negro,  the  last 
word  in  tailoring,  the  highest  stepper  in  the  smart 
coon  world.  How  the  fellow  did  prance  in  the 
[313] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

Cakewalk,  throwing  his  chest  and  his  buttocks  out 
in  opposite  directions,  until  he  resembled  a  pouter 
pigeon  more  than  a  human  being!  And  we  all 
shrieked  applause  until  he  had  varied  his  walk 
nineteen  times  and  repeated  all  the  variations. 
As  an  Abyssinian  monarch,  breast,  back,  arms, 
and  legs  bare,  a  live  bronze  statue.  Walker  was  a 
more  barbaric  figure,  but  even  here  his  inclusive 
smile,  which  disclosed  several  glittering  gold  teeth, 
created  a  bond  between  Africa  and  Broadway. 
And  his  unction  in  Bon  Bon  Buddy,  the  Chocolate 
Drop!  Supreme  unction,  I  call  it!  .  .  .  There 
were  other  features  of  these  entertainments,  Ada 
Overton  Walker,  for  instance,  who  later  became 
Aida,  who  danced  as  few  white  women  have  danced 
(the  cry  went,  "  Ain't  she  loose.''  ")  and  who  sang 
Miss  Hannah  of  Savamiah  and  /  want  to  he  a  lead- 
ing lady.  I  can't  recall  these  memories  without 
crying.  I  feel  very  much  the  way  William  Winter 
must  have  felt  when  he  thought  of  Edwin  Booth. 
For  George  Walker  is  dead  and  so  is  his  wife. 
Bert  Williams  drifted  into  the  Follies,  via  vaude- 
ville, but  either  the  Follies  or  vaudeville  killed  him, 
for  the  Bert  Williams  of  the  Follies  today  is  no 
more  the  Bert  Williams  of  the  Williams  and 
Walker  days  than  I  am  the  Carl  Van  Vechten  of 
1898. 

[ai4] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

In  December,  1^13,  there  was  a  renaissance  of 
the  Negro  theatre.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
between  1908  and  1913  no  Negro  companies  ap- 
peared in  our  theatres ;  I  do  mean  to  say  that  no 
Negro  company  attracted  my  attention  and  my 
patronage.  But  in  December,  1913,  I  learned 
(  didn't  everybody  ?  )  that  a  certain  J.  Leubrie  Hill 
was  appearing  in  a  piece  of  his  own  concoction 
called  My  Friend  from  Kentucky  with  his  organi- 
zation known  as  the  Darktown  Follies  at  the  Jef- 
ferson Theatre  in  the  New  York  black  belt. 

This  entertainment  shared  a  fault  common  to  all 
such  enterprises,  imitation  of  the  white  man's  the- 
atre. Mr.  Hill  evidently  believed  it  necessary  to 
add  a  dash  of  tenor,  a  sprinkling  of  girls  in  long 
satin  gowns  to  his  otherwise  entirely  fresh  Negro 
salad.  In  due  course  these  ingredients  were 
stirred  in.  Then  the  actors  on  the  stage  singing 
conventional  hymns  to  the  moon,  with  accompany- 
ing action  which  Ned  Wayburn  might  have  de- 
vised, lost  interest  and  the  audience  became  listless 
and  restless.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  show 
was  distinctly  coon  and  the  manner  in  which  both 
entertainers  and  pubHc  entered  into  its  spirit  was 
again  a  great  demonstration  of  a  truth  which  is 
becoming  more  and  more  evident  to  those  who  work 
in  the  theatre  that  there  must  be  complete  co- 
[315] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

operation  between  public  and  actor,  that  the  audi- 
ence indeed  must  become  an  integral  part  of  any 
successful  theatrical  performance.  The  specta- 
tors at  the  Darktown  Follies  appeared  to  be  en- 
joying themselves  after  the  semi-hysterical  fashion 
of  a  good  camp-meeting.  They  rocked  back  and 
forth  with  low  croons ;  they  screamed  with  delight ; 
they  giggled^  intermittently;  they  waved  their 
hands;  they  shrieked;  and  they  pounded  their 
palms  vigorously  together  in  an  effort,  which  was 
availing,  to  make  the  entertainers  work  hard. 

And  the  entertainers  worked.  They  certainly 
did  work.  In  My  friend  from  Kentucky  some  at- 
tempt was  made  to  present  the  Negro  as  he  really 
is  and  not  as  he  wants  to  be  on  the  stage.  The 
first  act  on  a  Virginia  plantation  diffused  a  gen- 
eral atmosphere  of  black  joy.  How  the  darkies 
danced,  sang,  and  cavorted.  Real  nigger  stuff, 
this,  done  with  spontaneity  and  joy  in  the  doing. 
A  ballet  in  ebony  and  ivory  and  rose.  Nine  out  of 
ten,  nay  ten  out  of  ten,  of  those  delightful  niggers, 
those  inexhaustible  Ethiopians,  those  husky  lanky 
blacks,  those  bronze  bucks  and  yellow  girls  would 
have  liked  to  have  danced  and  sung  like  that  every 
night  of  their  lives  and  they  showed  it.  How  they 
stepped  about  and  clapped  their  hands  and  "  grew 
[316] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

mad  with  their  bodies,"  and  grinned  and  shouted. 
Then  I  saw  the  Congo : 

".  .  .  cake-walk  princes  in  their  long  red  coats, 
Canes  with  a  brilliant  lacquer  shine, 
And  tall  silk  hats  that  were  red  as  wine. 
And  they  pranced  with  their  butterfly  partners 

there, 
Coal-black  maidens  with  pearls  in  their  hair. 
Knee-skirts  trimmed  with  the  jassamine  sweet, 
And  bells  on  their  ankles  and  little  black  feet." 

Passion  and  pleasure,  pleasure  and  passion,  a 
wholesome  and  tantalizing  confusion,  not  at  all  like 
Spanish  dancing  but  somehow  suggestive  at  times 
of  the  primitive  spirit  of  Spanish  dancing. 

In  good  Negro  entertainment  of  this  kind  there 
is  an  inexorable  rhythm,  like  the  rhythm  of  a 
camp-meeting.  Once  under  way  it  spreads  from 
side  to  side  of  the  stage.  The  separate  figures  be- 
come part  of  this  great  rhythm;  the  scenery  and 
the  stage  boards  take  it  up;  the  footlights  flicker 
to  it.  J.  Leubrie  Hill  reserved  his  great  eff'ort  in 
this  direction  for  the  final  scene  of  the  piece  in  a 
number  called  At  the  Ball  in  which  each  entity  of 
the  company  turned  his  body  into  that  of  a  ser- 
pent, and  then  together  they  became  one  enormous 
[317] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

serpent  that  coiled  and  recoiled  all  along  its  bone- 
less and  intolerable  length.  After  the  fiftieth  rep- 
etition of  this  number  the  rhythm  dominated  me  so 
completely  that  for  days  afterwards  I  subcon- 
sciously adapted  whatever  I  was  doing  to  its  de- 
mands. 

Night  after  night  Florenz  Ziegfeld  sat  admir- 
ingly in  a  box  at  this  show,  drinking  in  the  details 
of  the  admirable  stage  direction,  the  spontaneity 
of  the  performers,  their  characteristic  lax  ease, 
and  the  delightfully  abandoned  tunes.  Several  of 
these  he  bought,  together  with  their  accompanying 
action,  and  transplanted  them  into  his  Follies  of 
19Hy  but  the  effect  was  not  the  same.  The  tunes 
remained  pretty;  the  Follies  girls  undoubtedly 
were  pretty,  but  the  rhythm  was  gone,  the  thrill 
was  lacking,  the  boom  was  inaudible,  the  Congo 
had  disappeared. 

On  the  evening  of  March  30,  1914,  the  now 
defunct  Stage  Society  of  New  York,  which  had 
puttered  and  prowled  about  among  minor  master- 
pieces for  a  couple  of  seasons,  produced  a  great 
play,  Mr.  Ridgely  Torrence's  Granny  Maumee, 
So  far  as  I  know  this  play  was  the  first  serious 
attempt  to  depict  the  Negro,  from  his  own  point  of 
view.  The  theme  of  this  piece  is  set  to  the  chords 
of  Voodoo  worship  and  sympathetic  magic.  It 
[318] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

shows  the  proud  Negro  grandmother  disdaining  an 
alHance  with  white  blood.  By  burning  in  effigy 
the  white  man  who  has  seduced  her  granddaughter 
and  lynched  her  son  she  hopes  to  expiate  the  crime 
of  the  one  and  revenge  the  other.  But  out  of 
the  flames,  as  the  Lord  presented  himself  to  Moses 
in  the  burning  bush,  the  image  of  her  boy  appears 
to  her  and  she  dies  forgiving.  The  sweep  of  this 
drama  is  great;  it  is  a  satisfactory  presentation 
of  a  big  theme.  Both  play  and  Dorothy  Don- 
nelly's superb  interpretation  of  the  title  part  im- 
pressed me  so  deeply,  indeed,  that  I  attended  the 
second  and  final  performance  the  next  afternoon. 
And  immediately  I  was  seized  with  the  idea  of 
founding  a  real  Negro  theatre,  in  which  Negroes 
should  act  in  real  Negro  plays,  as  the  Irish  of  the 
Abbey  Theatre  had  produced  characteristic  Irish 
plays. 

The  difficulty,  of  course,  was  to  secure  the  plays. 
The  Irish,  it  would  seem,  are  a  playwriting  race. 
The  Negroes,  it  would  seem,  are  not.  During  my 
visits  to  the  Jefferson  Theatre  I  had  come  in  touch 
with  a  young  man,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten, 
who  had  taken  a  course  in  the  drama  with  Profes- 
sor Baker  of  Harvard.  I  now  bethought  myself 
of  this  fellow  and  wrote  him  to  send  me  some  plays. 
They  came,  five-act  tragedies  with  Hannibal  and 
[319] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

Trajan  as  heroes,  three-act  comedies  about  mod- 
em life  in  Boston  and  its  environs.  They  did  not 
seem  to  be  about  Negroes  at  all !  The  young  man, 
when  questioned,  said  he  doubted  if  I  could  find 
what  I  wanted.  Events  proved  that  he  was  right. 
The  educated  Negro  dramatist  has  no  desire  to 
remind  himself  or  his  prospective  audiences  of  the 
dark  days  and  unpleasant  traditions,  which  he 
thinks  best  forgotten.  Negroes  have  written 
plays,  but  so  far  as  I  can  discover  these  plays  have 
no  racial  significance;  they  are,  always  excepting 
certain  scenes  in  the  Williams  and  Walker  and  J. 
Leubrie  Hill  entertainments,  imitations  of  the  the- 
atre of  the  white  man,  and  consequently  quite 
worthless.  So  I  was  forced  to  abandon  my 
scheme.  It  was  easy  enough  to  find  Negro  actors ; 
most  Negroes  have  a  talent  for  acting,  but  you 
cannot  open  a  theatre  without  plays. 

But  Ridgely  Torrence  as  a  playwright  had  the 
advantage.  Already  he  had  produced  Granny 
Maumee.  He  wrote  two  more  plays,  engaged  a 
Negro  company,  and  at  the  Garden  Theatre  in 
April,  1917,  he  opened  the  first  Negro  theatre  of 
the  kind,  I  think,  that  had  been  attempted  in  this 
country.  One  of  these  plays,  Simon  the  Cyrenian, 
is  based  on  the  presumption,  which  has  an  ironic 
modem  signification,  that  the  cross-bearer  for 
[320] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

Jesus  was  a  black  man.  The  other  new  piece,  The 
Rider  of  Dreams  even  excels  Granny  Maumee  as 
the  ideal  of  the  type  of  play  suitable  for  Negroes 
to  perform  in  a  playhouse  of  their  own.  This 
play  has  the  true  folk-spirit.  The  subject  is 
somewhat  similar  to  that  of  Synge's  Playboy  but 
the  treatment  is  entirely  different.  The  lazy 
good-for-nothing,  dishonest,  delightful  dreamer, 
Madison  Sparrow,  is  not  only  a  distinct  addition 
to  the  meagre  gallery  of  portraits  offered  us  by 
the  contemporary  theatre,  it  is  also  an  essentially 
Negro  character.  As  played  by  Opal  Cooper  it 
was  easily  one  of  the  theatrical  delights  of  the 
season  of  which  it  formed  a  part.  These  three 
plays  produced,  however,  there  was  nothing  to  go 
on  with  and  in  due  time  the  enterprise  came  to  a 
halt.  Mr.  Torrence  has  published  these  plays  as 
"  Three  Plays  for  a  Negro  Theatre  "  but  even  the 
title  does  not  seem  to  have  stimulated  other  play- 
wrights to  work  in  the  same  field.  Three  plays 
for  a  Negro  theatre  there  are,  and,  so  far  as  I 
know,   there   are   no   more.^     J.   Leubrie   Hill  is 

1  Laurence  Eyre's  play,  Sazus  Matazus,  was  about  Ne- 
groes, but  seems  to  have  been  conceived  from  the  white  point 
of  view.  It  was  produced  and  played  for  at  least  a  week, 
but  it  never  reached  New  York.  I  do  not  know  that  Mary 
Burrill's  interesting  one-act  play.  Aftermath,  which  deals 
with  a  Negro  problem  from  a  Negro  point  of  view,  has  been 

[321] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

dead;  George  Walker  is  dead;  Aida  Overton 
Walker  is  dead,  but  something  of  the  spirit  of 
these,  something  of  the  dancing  and  singing  life  of 
the  Negroes  can  be  seen  and  heard  in  the  Negro 
cabarets  where,  indeed,  at  times  you  may  prevail 
on  the  musicians  to  give  you  a  "  spirtule,"  incon- 
gruously set,  to  be  sure,  but  wonderfully  sung. 
But  the  manner  of  singing  Negro  songs  correctly 
is  nearly  forgotten  so  far  as  the  respectable  Negro 
is  concerned.  The  dancing  is  becoming  Broad- 
wayized  and  sophisticated;  the  singing  is  fast  los- 
ing its  essential  style.  The  Negro,  who  has  suf- 
fered so  much,  wants  to  forget  the  old  environment 
of  slavery  and  broaden  out  into  an  imitation  of 
white  life.  One  evidence  of  this  is  that  the  rich- 
est woman  in  the  Negro  colony  in  New  York  is  the 
inventor  of  a  lotion  which  straightens  kinky  hair. 
The  Negro  race  has  given  this  country  its  only 
valuable  folk-music,  for  the  folk-music  of  the  In- 
dians is  more  or  less  negligible  musically  although 
probably  some  of  it  has  an  ethnological  value. 
This  folk-music  has  been  pretty  well  preserved, 
pretty  well  collected,  but  the  art  of  singing  it  is 
passing.  A  few  years  ago  I  heard  the  Tuskegee 
singers  sing  spirituals  as  if  they  were  Bach  can- 
performed.  It  may,  however,  be  added  to  the  short  list  of 
plays  for  a  Negro  theatre. 

[322] 


The   Negro   Theatre 

tatas;  their  tone,  attack,  and  phrasing  were  im- 
peccable and  the  authentic  Negro  manner  forty 
thousand  leagues  away.  At  the  Negro  Music 
School  Settlement  in  Harlem  I  once  heard  a  young 
coloured  girl  sing  Nobody  knows  de  trouble  Vse 
seen  just  about  as  Mme.  Melba  might  have  sung 
John  Anderson,  My  Joe.  She  even  corrected 
characteristic  grammatical  errors  in  the  tradi- 
tional text!  She  undoubtedly  would  have  sung 
"  Nobody  knows  how  much  trouble  I  have  seen  " 
if  the  music  had  permitted  it. 

The  last  time  I  visited  the  Jefferson  Theatre  it 
had  become  the  home  of  a  stock  company.  I 
heard  two  acts  of  Madame  X  there,  given  in  imita- 
tion of  all  the  worst  conventions  of  Broadway, 
with  pauses  and  "  crosses,"  etc.  The  acting  was 
no  worse  and  no  better  than  conventional  Broad- 
way acting.  The  next  week  The  Yellow  Ticket 
was  to  be  the  bill  but  while  the  prospect  of  seeing 
a  black  girl  impersonate  a  Jewish  prostitute  ex- 
cited my  mirth  it  did  not  draw  me  to  the  theatre. 
Nor  did  I  go  to  see  Othello,  Actors  have  to  act 
what  there  is  to  act.  They  cannot  appear  in 
Negro  plays  if  there  is  none.  But  it  is  doubtful  if 
Negro  audiences  would  go  in  large  numbers  to  see 
a  characteristic  Negro  play,  the  musical  play  ex- 
cepted.    Negroes    as    a    whole   are   astonishingly 


The   Negro   Theatre 

lacking  in  race  pride.  Many  of  them  have  suc- 
cumbed to  the  effect  of  white  domination :  they  are 
ashamed  of  their  race.  To  be  sure  Negroes  who 
marry  whites  are  seldom  well  spoken  of  by  their 
compatriots  but  the  rich  burning  race  pride  of 
Granny  Maumee  would  be  hard  to  duplicate,  in 
New  York  at  least.  Unless  Mr.  Torrence  writes 
more  plays,  and  other  white  men  follow  his  ex- 
ample, I  am  afraid  there  will  never  be  a  Negro 
Theatre,  and  if  there  is  one  I  am  sure  it  will  appeal 
more  to  whites  than  to  blacks.  The  Negro  will 
always  prefer  Mary  Pickford  to  Bert  Williams. 
February  3,  1919. 


[324] 


IV 

The  Yiddish  Theatre 


THE  Yiddish  Theatre  in  New  York  is  an 
institution.  Several  playhouses  present 
drama  in  Yiddish  all  the  year  round ;  others 
give  shorter  seasons.  There  are  two  large  Yid- 
dish theatres  on  Second  Avenue;  at  least  two  on 
the  Bowery;  one  on  Grand  Street;  and  now  the 
Irving  Place  Theatre,  so  long  devoted  to  the  Ger- 
mans, has  become  a  Yiddish  theatre.^  These  thea- 
tres are  large,  the  prices  for  seats  in  most  in- 
stances equivalent  to  those  in  the  uptown  theatres, 
the  patronage  unexampled.  Undoubtedly  the  Yid- 
dish Theatre  has  made  many  fortunes.  Almost 
any  winter  day  you  may  see  Boris  TomashefFsky 
in  a  fur  coat  lolling  in  his  limousine  before  his 
Second  Avenue  Theatre.  His  wife,  Bessie  Toma- 
shefFsky, controls  and  plays  in  a  theatre  on  the 
Bowery.  Some  years  ago  when  Max  Reinhardt's 
production  of  Sumuru/n  was  brought  to  America, 

1  Just  as  this  book  is  going  to  press  the  new  Yiddish  Art 
Theatre,  under  the  direction  of  Emmanuel  Reicher,  has 
opened  the  Garden  Theatre  for  the  season  of  1919-20.  I  do 
not  believe  I  have  ever  seen  anything  finer  in  the  theatre 
than  the  opening  production,  Perez  Hirschbein's  The  Idle 
Inn. 

[325] 


The   Yiddish   Theatre 

Rudolph  Schildkraut,  the  original  hunchback  in 
Berhn,  was  playing  in  New  York  on  the  Yiddish 
stage.  An  attempt  was  made  to  get  him  to  return 
to  the  cast  and  he  was  quite  willing  to  do  so  pro- 
vided the  management  would  pay  him  his  Bowery 
salary  of  $2,000  a  week.  Bertha  Kalich,  who  has 
graduated  from  the  Yiddish  stage,  returns  to  it 
occasionally,  usually  at  David  Kessler's  Theatre, 
where  she  appears  in  The  Kreutzer  Sonata  and 
other  pieces  of  her  old  repertory.  Her  emolu- 
ments on  such  occasions  are  said  to  be  sufficiently 
impressive. 

The  public  that  attends  these  theatres  is  very 
avid,  extraordinarily  captious,  and,  even  from  a 
Broadway  point  of  view,  excessively  ill-mannered. 
I  have  seldom  been  present  at  a  Yiddish  theatre 
when  the  house  was  not  so  packed  that  breathing 
and  even  sitting  became  perilous.  It  is  the  cus- 
tom to  let  the  public  in  through  one  door ;  it  is  the 
fashion  of  the  Jewish  public  to  come  early  and 
stand  on  the  sidewalk  or  in  the  small  lobby  of  the 
theatre  until  a  few  moments  before  the  curtain 
rises.  Then  there  is  a  rush  through  the  small 
aperture,  figurative  biting  and  scratching,  rough 
handling,  hard  words.  All  this  is  very  unpleasant 
to  the  outsider.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  put 
[326] 


The   Yiddish   Theatre 

eight  or  nine  or  even  ten  people  into  a  box  in- 
tended to  seat  four  or  six ;  the  attendant  squabbles 
are  part  of  the  performance.  The  French  inven- 
tion of  strapontins  or  hinged  seats  that  can  be 
extended  into  the  aisles  has  not  been  imported,  but 
those  who  are  standing  sometimes  sit  on  the  arms 
of  your  chair.  There  is  worse  to  come.  If  you 
have  dined  with  a  rich  Jew  you  know  that  you  eat 
better  at  his  house  than  elsewhere.  Jews  in  New 
York's  Ghetto  are  equally  prodigal  with  good 
food.  A  dinner  without  five  or  six  courses,  even 
in  a  poor  family,  would  be  considered  modest. 
These  people  also  have  a  habit  of  eating  between 
meals;  for  short  street  car  journeys  they  require 
a  lunch  and  they  often  carry  as  much  with  them 
for  a  trip  from  Brooklyn  to  Manhattan  as  would 
see  an  economical  lady  traveller  on  a  train  jour- 
ney from  New  York  to  Omaha.  There  is  a  pro- 
digious amount  of  eating  done  in  the  Yiddish  the- 
atres ;  not  alone  fruit  and  candy  (usually  halvah) 
but  baskets  of  gefilllte  fisch  are  disposed  of  not 
only  in  the  intermissions  but  during  the  progress 
of  the  play.  Maurice  Schwartz,  the  director  of 
the  new  Irving  Place  Theatre,  determined  to  put  a 
stop  to  this  practice,  which  is  disconcerting  to  any 
serious  auditor,  and  is  almost  unbearable  to  the 
[327] 


The   Yiddish   Theatre 

casual  theatre-goer  of  another  race  who  happens 
in.  Therefore  he  allowed  no  concessions  inside  his 
theatre  to  food-venders  and  he  stationed  a  man  at 
the  door  whose  duty  it  was  to  take  food  away 
from  people  who  came  in  and  check  it  until  they 
went  out  again.  One  very  old  man  came  one  night 
with  his  family  and  a  large  market  basket  full  of 
baked  fish!  This  was  gently  but  firmly  removed 
from  his  grasping  fingers.  "  I've  been  coming  to 
the  Yiddish  theatre  now  for  thirty-five  years,"  he 
protested,  "  and  such  a  thing  has  never  happened 
to  me  before.  Will  I  get  it  back?  "  He  was  as- 
sured that  his  fish  would  be  waiting  for  him  after 
the  final  curtain,  but  it  is  reported  that  he  did 
not  enjoy  the  play  and  left  early,  saying  that  he 
was  hungry.  I  have  never  heard  hissing  in  the 
Yiddish  theatre  but  when  the  action  or  dialogue 
on  the  stage  relaxes  its  interest  the  audience  is 
extremely  inattentive  and  the  buzz  of  conversa- 
tion is  almost  general.  This  is  not  an  extreme  or 
unusual  occurrence;  it  happens  somewhere  in  al- 
most every  play.  If  the  interest  rises  the  audience 
listens. 

Jews  undoubtedly  have  a  special  talent  for  act- 
ing;   at    its    best    acting    on    the    Yiddish    stage 
reaches  a  very  high  level ;  at  its  worst  it  is  usually 
better  than  bad  acting  elsewhere.     Bertha  Kalich 
[328] 


The  Yiddish   Theatre 

comes  from  the  Yiddish  theatre;  the  astonishing 
Vera  Gordon  was  buried  in  a  minor  Yiddish  play- 
house on  Grand  Street.  Jacob  Adler  is  a  fine 
actor  and  so  is  David  Kessler  sometimes.  Boris 
TomashefFsky  has  a  certain  talent  for  the  projec- 
tion of  modern  melodrama.  There  are  newcomers. 
Cillie  Adler,  one  of  Jacob  Adler's  daughters,  is  an 
artist  of  temperament  and  astonishing  finesse.  I 
could  describe  her  in  terms  of  the  Broadway  stage 
as  a  sort  of  combination  of  Mizzi  Hajos  and 
Laurette  Taylor.  Her  sister  Frances,  on  the 
other  hand,  although  remarkably  beautiful,  is  de- 
ficient in  talent.  Ludwig  Satz,  still  a  very  young 
man,  is  a  fine  "  character  "  actor.  If  he  continues 
to  grow  he  will  some  day  undoubtedly  control  a 
theatre  of  his  own.  He  has  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion in  Ossip  Dy mow's  The  Awakening  of  a  Na- 
tion^ in  Perez  Hirschbein's  A  Verworfen  Wmkel 
and  The  Blacksmith's  Daughters,  and  in  David 
Pinski's  play.  The  Treasure. 

The  actors  on  the  Yiddish  stage  are  well  organ- 
ized; they  have  their  clubs  and  their  unions  and 
they  see  to  it  that  the  rules  of  these  clubs  and 
unions  are  enforced.  Every  Yiddish  theatre, 
whether  it  produces  musical  plays  or  not,  is 
obliged  to  engage  an  orchestra  and  a  chorus ! 

The  repertories  in  these  theatres  are  much  more 
[329] 


The   Yiddish   Theatre 

varied  than  those  of  the  uptown  playhouses. 
Modern  melodramas  like  Schomer's  Today,  which 
Emily  Stevens  played  in  English,  are  popular. 
Gabel's  Theatre  on  the  Bowery  exploits  pieces  with 
such  titles  as  A  GirVs  Good  Name  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tomasheffsky  have  no  very  high  standard. 
Then  there  are  Yiddish  plays  on  the  post-Gold- 
faden  ^  model  with  "  song  and  dance,"  and  villains 
in  silk  hats  and  there  are  the  plays  of  Jacob 
Gordin,  who  to  be  sure  adapted  many  of  them  from 
dramas  by  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Hebbel,  Ibsen, 
Ostrovsky,  Hugo,  Lessing,  Schiller,  Hauptmann, 
Gogol,  Grillparzer,  and  others.  His  Mirele 
Effros,  for  example,  is  a  Jewish  King  Lear,  while 
Gody  Man  and  Devil  was  inspired  by  Fawst.  The 
repertory  is  further  increased  by  the  inclusion  of 
successful  American  plays  and  at  most  of  the  Yid- 
dish theatres  the  best  foreign  dramas  are  occasion- 
ally presented,  sometimes  for  runs.  Tolstoy's 
The  Living  Corpse  was  first  given  in  New  York  in 
Yiddish  and  I  remember  Jacob  Adler's  perform- 
ance of  Fedya  as  the  best  I  have  seen.  I  once  saw 
a  very  good  performance  of  Gorky's  The  Lower 
Depths  at  David  Kessler's  Theatre.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem  this  sordid  tragedy,  unredeemed  by  a 

1  Abraham   Goldf aden   founded   the   Yiddish   Theatre   in 
Rumania  in  1876. 

[330] 


The  Yiddish  Theatre 

single  ray  of  humour,  was  played  for  comedy  on 
this  occasion.  Yiddish  audiences  love  comedy ;  in- 
deed they  insist  upon  it.  Guimera's  Marta  of  the 
LowlandSy  Oscar  Wilde's  Salome,  Schnitzler's 
Doctor  Bernhardi,  Ibsen's  Hedda  Gabler,  and 
many  other  plays  of  the  foreign  art  theatre  have 
been  performed  in  Yiddish,  some  of  them  fre- 
quently. During  the  season  of  1918-19  Mrs. 
Warren's  Profession  was  given  forty  times  at  the 
Irving  Place  Theatre. 

But  the  modern  Jewish  playwrights,  aside  from 
Ossip  Dymow,  have  been  given  little  encourage- 
ment in  the  Yiddish  theatres;  at  least  this  was  the 
case  until  Maurice  Schwartz  opened  his  Irving 
Place  Theatre  to  some  of  them.  Leon  Kobrin, 
for  instance,  is  forced  to  produce  his  plays  in 
specially  hired  halls.  The  two  greatest  successes 
of  the  season  of  1918^19  at  the  Irving  Place  The- 
atre were  two  pieces  by  Perez  Hirschbein  which 
have  been  begging  for  production  for  several 
years.  One  of  the  reasons  managers  gave  for 
refusing  to  consider  them  was  that  they  were  writ- 
ten in  three  acts !  Successful  Yiddish  plays  had 
hitherto  been  written  in  four  or  more  acts.  David 
Pinski's  very  fine  play.  The  Treasure,  has  also 
been  produced  at  this  theatre,  although  not  for 
a  run.  Max  Reinhardt  produced  this  play  in 
[3S1] 


The   Yiddish   Theatre 

Berlin  as  long  ago  as  1910.  Reinhardt  has  en- 
couraged other  young  Jewish  playwrights,  Sholom 
Ash  among  others,  whose  TJie  God  of  Vengeance 
was  performed  in  Berlin. 

After  seeing  Perez  Hirschbein's  fine  play,  The 
Black STmtKs  Daughters^  I  can  testify  to  a  great 
revival  of  interest  on  my  part  (I  have  been  an 
occasional  attendant  of  the  Yiddish  Theatre  since 
1900)  in  the  Yiddish  Theatre  and  a  feeling  that 
Isaac  Goldberg's  hope  for  its  future  is  not  alto- 
gether without  promise  of  fulfilment.  The  Black- 
smith's Daughters  is  a  folk-play  of  Jewish  Russia, 
as  typical  of  the  race  and  environment  as  Synge's 
The  Tinker's  Wedding  is  typically  Irish.  This 
kind  of  play,  by  reason  of  its  simple  human  quali- 
ties, immediately  assumes  a  universal  aspect;  it 
can  be  understood,  indeed,  by  anybody. 

I  have  said  that  The  Blacksmith's  Daughters 
is  a  simple  play.  The  plot  is  so  simple  that  it 
might  almost  be  said  not  to  exist.  The  joy  of 
the  piece  lies  in  its  refreshingly  ecstatic  realism, 
its  delightful  characterization,  its  human  point 
of  view,  its  charming  episodes,  its  snatches  of 
folk  and  religious  song.  "  Many  Yiddish  plays," 
writes  Dr.  Goldberg,  "  to  the  Western  mind, 
would   seem    to   lack    climax,   whereas    the   truth 


The  Yiddish  Theatre 

is  that  the  Jewish  reader  or  spectator  re^ 
gards  the  work  as  a  picture,  rather  than  a 
progress."  A  typical  scene  is  that  of  the 
second  act  in  which  one  of  the  daughters  be- 
wails her  lot  because  the  young  man  she  fancies 
seemingly  prefers  her  sister.  Zelda  has  another 
lover  and  in  a  burst  of  sympathy  and  generosity 
she  offers  Leah  a  love  potion  which  she  has  secured 
from  a  woman  who  puts  it  in  her  husband's  soup 
once  a  week  to  hold  him.  Remember,  O  scoffing 
reader,  that  Madame  de  Montespan  tried  similar 
tricks  on  Louis  XIV.  This  scene  occurs  early  in 
the  second  act.  At  the  end  of  this  act  the  black- 
smith and  his  strapping  apprentices,  the  two  lov- 
ers, come  in  for  their  dinner.  There  is  washing 
of  the  hands,  the  laying  of  the  table  by  the  girls, 
the  serving  of  the  dinner,  the  cutting  of  bread, 
but  not  a  word  is  spoken ;  the  byplay  furnishes  the 
drama.  At  last  the  sorrowful  Leah  sees  her 
chance ;  she  clutches  frantically  at  the  love  potion 
and  drops  it  into  the  soup  she  is  about  to  serve 
Boruch.  But  in  her  haste,  her  embarrassment, 
her  nervousness,  the  plate  slips  from  her  fingers 
and  smashes  at  her  feet;  love  potion  and  soup 
together  sink  into  the  boards  of  the  floor.  The 
curtain  falls.  I  have  never  seen  a  scene  better 
[333] 


The   Yiddish   Theatre 

played ;  I  have  never  seen  a  scene  make  more  effect 
with  an  audience,  and  yet  for  the  last  fifteen  min- 
utes of  this  act  not  one  word  is  spoken. 

Yiddish  actors  nearly  all  have  talent;  many 
have  genius.  At  their  worst  they  caricature,  exag- 
gerate, overemphasize  their  points.  At  their  best, 
and  they  are  at  their  best  naturally  in  such  a  play 
as  The  Blacksmith* s  Daughters  rather  than  in  a 
drama  by  Bernard  Shaw  or  Ibsen,  the  acting  rises 
to  a  high  level.  Ludwig  Satz  plays  a  smajl  role 
in  this  play,  that  of  a  book  peddler,  but  he  plays  it 
with  unction  and  characterizes  it  with  considerable 
imagination.  As  the  idiot  boy  in  The  Treasure 
he  is  simply  extraordinary.  The  burden  of 
Hirschbein's  play  falls  on  Cillie  Adler  as  the  lucky 
sister  and  with  what  art  and  skill  she  develops  the 
part !  Her  detail,  her  byplay,  her  verbal  expres- 
sion, all  make  her  performance  a  very  finished 
piece  of  work.  Mr.  Schwartz,  himself,  is  success- 
ful as  one  of  the  blacksmith's  apprentices,  espe- 
cially in  his  songs,  and  the  others  are  entirely  sat- 
isfactory. I  particularly  like  Mr.  Goldsmith  as 
the  blacksmith's  father. 

Certain  American  publishers  ^  have  made  it  pos- 

1  The  Treasure:  David  Pinski  (B.  W.  Huebsch) ;  "Three 
Plays  "  (Isaac  Scheftel,  The  Last  Jew,  and  The  Dumb  Mes- 
siah): David  Pinski   (B.  W.  Huebsch);  The  God  of  Ven- 

[334] 


The  Yiddish  Theatre 

sible  to  study  the  plays  of  a  group  of  modem 
Yiddish  playwrights  in  English  translations,  and 
it  is  evident  that  these  men  are  producing  interest- 
ing work,  which  bears  in  a  sense  the  same  relation 
to  the  Yiddish  Theatre  that  the  work  of  Synge 
and  his  contemporaries  bore  to  the  Irish  Theatre. 
At  its  best  it  is  excellent  folk-drama  and  the  re- 
ligion and  customs  of  the  Jew  form  an  excellent 
basis  for  folk-drama.  Hirschbein,  to  be  sure,  is 
occasionally  influenced  by  the  French  symbolists; 
there  seems  to  be  a  close  affiliation  between  Dymow 
and  the  modern  Russians ;  ^  still  others  have  de- 
rived their  form  from  Hauptmann  and  the  modern 
Germans.  This  is  not  matter  for  censure,  how- 
ever, and  at  its  best,  as  in  Pinski's  The  TreasurCy 
the  work  of  the  modern  Jew  in  the  theatre  ap- 
proaches perilously  near  to  genius. 
May  1,  1919. 

geance:  Sholom  Ash  (The  Stratford  Company);  "Six  Plays 
of  the  Yiddish  Theatre " :  First  series :  plays  by  David 
Pinski,  Sholom  Aleichem,  Sholom  Ash,  and  Perez  Hirsch- 
bein; Second  series:  plays  by  David  Pinski,  Z.  Levin,  Leon 
Kobrin,  and  Perez  Hirschbein  (John  W.  Luce  and  Co.). 
2  Dymow,  indeed,  usually  writes  in  Russian. 


[335] 


V 

The  Spanish  Theatre 


IN  at  least  one  respect,  and  that  in  the  matter 
of  religion,  Chicago  may  be  regarded  as  a  cos- 
mopolitan city.  Religions  flourish  in  Chicago 
and  round  about  that  metropolis  as  field  daisies 
flourish  in  Massachusetts.  In  no  other  city  of  the 
world,  it  would  seem,  is  such  anxiety  manifested 
for  the  welfare  of  the  soul.  John  Alexander 
Dowie  founded  the  new  Zion  near  Chicago,  an  ex- 
traordinary community,  where  a  rude  idealism 
battled  nobly  with  crude  materialistic  conditions 
and  superstition  found  favour  in  mediocre  minds. 
The  fat  prophet  hurled  epithetical  stink-pots  at 
the  heads  of  his  adversaries  and  travelled  abroad 
in  a  chariot  borne  forward  by  two  startling  mot- 
tled ponies.  I  am  certain  that  the  prophet  sought 
zebras,  which  may  not  have  been  in  the  market; 
nor  could  zebras  have  withstood  the  rigours  of 
the  stiff'  Zion  City  climate,  the  windy  terrors  of  its 
treeless  barren  plain.  The  palace  of  the  prophet 
was  of  red  brick  (his  followers  contented  them- 
selves with  the  ugly  clap-boarded  dwellings  of  the 
environment  and  period)  in  the  worst  style  of  the 
[336] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

late  nineties  in  the  middle  west,  the  rococo  decad- 
ence following  the  President  Grant  epoch,  late 
Cleveland  or  early  McKinley.  The  roof,  however, 
was  shingled  with  a  touch  of  fantasy,  zigzagging 
slates  in  black  and  white.  The  interior,  which  I 
sometimes  visited  on  some  journalistic  mission, 
could  not  be  described  as  symbolic  of  the  riches 
of  the  spirit.  Nor  was  any  ascetic  note  sounded. 
Thick  red  and  green  carpets  were  pleasant  to  walk 
upon  but  hideous  to  the  eye.  The  elaborate  fur- 
niture represented  Grand  Rapids  taste  at  its 
worst  and  most  expensive.  Here  the  prophet's 
unkissed  son  grew  up  and  the  fat,  the  very  fat 
prophet  himself,  ate  from  the  fleshpots  and  con- 
templated his  pseudo-divinity  in  the  long  mirrors. 

In  Chicago,  too,  flourished  the  Spirit-Fruit  re- 
ligion, which  originated,  to  be  sure,  on  a  Michi- 
gan farm,  but  reached  its  true  fruition  in  a  minor 
lecture  hall  on  South  Clark  Street.  Free  love  in 
a  rather  terrifyingly  absolute  sense  and  the  conse- 
cration of  one  of  the  highest  ideals  of  Heliogabo- 
lus  appeared  to  be  the  principal  tenets  of  this  de- 
cidedly pleasant  form  of  worship,  which  continued 
to  thrive  until  the  star  reporters  of  two  Chicago 
newspapers  made  its  existence  in  unsubtle  Chicago 
a  police  problem.  For  side  by  side  with  the 
growth  of  religious  feeling  in  Chicago  there 
[3S7] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

stalked  an  organized  persecution  and  faith  was 
torn  from  the  hearts  of  the  people.  Every  day  a 
new  martyr  to  a  new  faith  was  burned  at  the  stake 
beside  the  shores  of  Lake  Michigan. 

Who  would  look  for  Babism  in  Chicago.'^  Yet 
Mirza  Ali  Mohammed  has  found  many  adherents 
there.  Then  there  was  a  faith  which  made  blue 
glass  its  idol.  I  do  not  recall  the  name  of  this 
sect  but  blue  glass  was  prescribed  for  all  mental 
and  physical  ills  and  the  panes  in  many  houses 
were  changed.  Naturally  such  tampering  with 
God's  conventions  stirred  the  police  department 
to  action.  I  myself  was  present  when  the  officers 
of  the  law  shattered  one  of  these  glass  houses,  from 
the  bed  of  a  blue-lighted  room  of  which  an  emaci- 
ated saint-like  skeleton  of  a  woman,  who  must  have 
weighed  forty  pounds,  was  borne  protesting  and 
carried  on  a  stretcher  in  a  patrol-wagon  to  a  hos- 
pital. Whether  she  died  or  not  I  do  not  remem- 
ber. Probably  nobody  does.  Public  decency  was 
satisfied,  once  she  had  been  placed  in  a  room  with 
clear  panes  of  glass. 

There  were  other  religions,  many  others,  but  of 

all  the  Chicago  religions  I  remember  best  that  of 

the  Sun  Worshippers.     Its  high  priest,  if  I  recall 

his  name  correctly,  was  a  Persian,  Ottoman  Zar- 

[338] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

Adusht  Hanish.  His  followers  were  asked  to  re- 
frain from  the  eating  of  animals ;  nor  could  the 
skins  of  animals  be  used  as  shoe  leather  or  belts ; 
nor  their  fur  worn  as  muffs  or  collars.  All  walked 
softly  in  canvas  shoes.  So  far  one  might  class 
Bernard  Shaw  with  the  Sun  Worshippers.  But 
these  Chicagoans  carried  matters  further.  They 
used  the  sun  for  cooking  purposes  and  any  one  fa- 
miliar with  the  Chicago  sun  must  be  quite  aware  of 
the  fact  that  it  is  as  efficacious  in  this  regard  as  a 
seven  burner  gas  range.  The  Sun  Worshippers 
also  believed  in  periods  of  fasting  and  thirty  and 
forty  day  fasts  were  undertaken,  not,  I  can  say 
from  some  personal  observation  of  the  partici- 
pants, without  beneficial  results.  .  .  .  Altogether 
a  sweet,  mild-tempered  sect,  with  no  sort  of  mili- 
tancy of  manner  or  thought.  I  recall  especially  a 
charming  English  lady,  who  since  she  had  joined 
the  holy  band  had  eaten  no  meat,  replying  to  my 
question  as  to  whether  or  not  she  missed  it,  "  Not 
often,  but  sometimes  I  do  have  a  longing  for  some 
nice  potted  shrimps !  " 

If  I  had  remained  in  Chicago  I  should  have  be- 
come religious.     I  should  have  joined  a  sect  or 
perhaps  founded  one.     New  York  is  less  given  to 
making    a    fetish    of    religion.     Many    sects    un- 
[339] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

doubtedly  have  gained  a  foothold  here  but  they  are 
not  advertised  and  persecuted;  consequently  they 
fade  into  the  insignificant  background  of  New 
York  life.  To  restaurants  and  theatres  are  as- 
signed the  parts  that  religions  play  in  Chicago. 
Of  the  latter  there  are  so  many  that  no  complete 
list  of  them  has  as  yet  been  compiled.  Almost 
every  language  is  represented  by  its  drama  in 
New  York,  unless  it  be  a  language  which  has  no 
drama. 

Strangely  enough,  however,  the  Spanish  The- 
atre has  never  become  an  institution  in  New  York 
like  the  theatre  of  the  Chinese,  the  Jews,  the  Ger- 
mans, the  French,  the  Italians,  and  the  Russians. 
Sporadic  attempts  have  been  made  to  found  a 
Spanish  Theatre  but  there  is  no  playhouse  regu- 
larly devoted  to  Iberian  theatrical  art.  Now  con- 
sidering the  large  Spanish  population,  continually 
being  increased  by  visitors  from  Cuba,  Mexico, 
South  and  Central  America,  and  Spain  itself,  con- 
sidering the  large  number  of  Americans  in  New 
York  who  speak  Spanish,  this  may  be  regarded  as 
inexplicable.  The  Spaniards  love  the  drama; 
they  adore  dancing.  They  have  produced  some 
very  great  dramatists  from  the  time  of  Lope  de 
Vega,  Calderon,  and  Tirso  de  Molina,  to  Jose 
Echegaray,  Angel  Guimera,  Benito  Perez-Galdos, 
[340] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

Linares  Rivas,  Dicenta,  Gregorio  Martinez-Sierra, 
Santiago  Rusinol,  the  brothers  Quintero,  and 
Jacinto  Benavente.  The  zarzuela  is  a  form  of 
light  opera  invented  by  the  Spanish  and  brought 
to  a  high  degree  of  perfection.  All  the  great 
dramatists  of  Spain  have  written  zarzuelas  which 
have  been  set  to  music  by  such  composers  as 
Breton,  Chapi,  Albeniz,  Valverde  (father  and  son), 
Serrano,  Vives,  and  Caballero.  As  for  dancing  it 
is  the  national  art.  Why  then  has  not  some  Span- 
iard established  a  theatre  here  for  the  presentation 
of  the  best  classic  and  modern  plays  with  visiting 
stars,  and  occasionally  great  visiting  dancers? 
Why  have  all  the  attempts  at  a  Spanish  theatre 
(with  the  brilliant  exception  of  the  production  of 
The  Land  of  Joy)  been  petty  and  primitive  and 
on  a  level  with  performances  seen  in  small  Spanish 
villages?  I  cannot  explain  it  but  so  the  matter 
stands.^ 

1  At  the  end  of  April,  1919,  another  attempt  to  present 
Spanish  opera  and  zarzuela,  on  a  somewhat  pretentious  scale 
but  without  adequate  means,  was  made  at  the  Park  Theatre. 
The  venture,  foredoomed  to  failure  from  the  beginning, 
lasted  somewhat  less  than  two  weeks,  but  during  that  period 
two  works  of  Amadeo  Vives  were  sung,  Maruxa  and  Los 
Bohemios.  These  were  followed  by  a  revue  called  Cielo 
Espanol.  This  entertainment  unfortunately  had  no  redeem- 
ing features,  as  all  the  entertainers,  including  the  conductor 
of  the  orchestra,  were  wholly  lacking  in  talent.  A  more 
recent  experiment  at  the  Cort  Theatre  was  also  abortive. 

[341] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

The  latest  attempt  at  a  Spanish  Theatre  in 
New  York  is  very  modest.  Manuel  Noriega  and 
his  company  have  given  some  scattered  perform- 
ances at  the  Amsterdam  Opera  House  on  West 
Forty-fourth  Street,  just  two  blocks  from  the 
Hotel  Astor.  There  on  Sunday  afternoons  you 
may  hear  a  short  play,  listen  to  some  canciones, 
see  some  dancing,  and  finally  enjoy  a  zarzuela,  all 
for  one  price  of  admission.  For  the  Iwnetds 
(stalls)  seventy-five  cents  is  asked,  for  the  palcos 
(boxes)  one  dollar.  There  is  but  one  funcion  a 
week  but  the  bill  is  changed  every  Sunday.  On 
the  occasion  I  attended  the  audience  was  made  up 
entirely  of  Spaniards  or  Latin-Americans ;  I  must 
have  looked  almost  Scandinavian  in  comparison. 
There  were  children  in  plenty,  fat  dusky  children, 
well-behaved  and  over-dressed.  Smoking  was  per- 
mitted and  nearly  all  the  men  smoked.  During 
the  intermissions  attendants  passed  up  and  down 
the  aisles  with  trays  of  beer,  lemonade,  and  sand- 
wiches. Cocktails  and  highballs  were  procurable 
but  I  did  not  see  anybody  drinking  them. 

The  Amsterdam  Opera  House  is  really  a  dance 
hall,  for  although  there  is  a  stage,  the  floor  of 
the  auditorium  is  built  without  a  rake.  The  stage, 
however,  is  high  enough  so  that  it  is  possible  to 
see  from  practically  every  line  of  chairs.     Midway 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

between  floor  and  ceiling  a  row  of  boxes  com- 
pletely circles  the  hall  from  the  proscenium  arch 
on  one  side  of  the  stage  to  that  on  the  other.  Un- 
der these  boxes  the  wall  is  mirrored. 

At  three  o'clock,  the  hour  announced  for  begin- 
ning, the  impatient  ones  began  to  stamp  and  call 
out.  The  performance,  of  course,  did  not  begin 
until  twenty  minutes  after  three.  I  was  surprised 
that  it  began  so  early.  Is  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  the  only  theatre  in  the  world  where 
performances  begin  on  time.''  I  sometimes  think 
so.  .  .  .  The  first  play,  a  melodramatic  comedy  in 
one  act  and  three  scenes  called  Los  Traperos  de 
Madrid  {The  Ragpickers  of  Madrid)  was  for  all 
the  world  like  an  old-fashioned  Bowery  melodrama, 
without  any  of  the  saw-mill  scenes,  railway  wrecks, 
or  storms  at  sea  which  decorated  the  progress  of 
those  delightful  entertainments.  Otherwise  Ber- 
tha, the  sewing  machine  girl,  or  Nellie,  the  beauti- 
ful cloak  model,  had  been  metamorphosed  into  the 
rag-picker's  daughter,  Rosario,  loving  the  poor 
hero  and  besought  by  the  rich  villain.  After  an 
expository  incident,  the  usual  "  front  "  scene  fol- 
lowed, a  street,  of  course,  and  rather  an  astonish- 
ing street  for  Madrid,  with  advertisements  of 
Spearmint  gum  in  English  on  a  wall  and  the  spire 
of  the  First  Congregational  Church  in  the  middle 
[343] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

distance.  Therein  was  enacted  the  usual  "  comic 
relief,"  furnished  in  this  instance  by  two  drunks. 
Then  the  play  swiftly  strode  on  to  its  climax 
in  the  third  scene  in  which  Rosario's  blonde  sister, 
also  loved  by  the  villain,  Alfonso  el  Serio,  dis- 
patched the  wicked  man  and  was  led  off  to  prison, 
leaving  Rosario  to  marry  the  poor  man  she  loved. 
The  "  much  applauded  author  "  of  this  piece,  the 
program  informed  us,  was  Isidro  Soler. 

It  is  always  my  hope  in  such  a  theatre,  a  hope 
frequently  encouraged  by  satisfactory  experience, 
to  meet  with  interesting  acting,  but  in  this  in- 
stance I  was  disappointed.  The  acting  was  con- 
ventional and  sometimes  crude  and  amateurish. 
Arthur  Symons  declares  that  the  Spaniards  have 
very  little  talent  for  acting,  lacking  the  necessary 
flexibility.  The  actors  were  especially  continent 
in  the  use  of  gestures.  George  Henry  Lewes  long 
ago  pointed  out  that  "  it  is  really  curious  that 
Southern  nations,  who  habitually  gesticulate 
vivaciously,  are  less  given  to  gesticulation  on  the 
stage  than  we,  who  rarely,  except  on  the  stage, 
make  use  of  our  hands  for  expression."  But 
there  were  touches  to  delight.  For  example,  a 
subsidiary  character,  Pilar,  played  by  the  Seno- 
rita  Ruiz,  wore  a  rose  Manila  shawl  in  the  authen- 
tic Spanish  manner ;  it  was  a  pleasure  to  watch  her 
[344f] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

manage  it,  cuddle  it  into  life,  fold  it  now  about  her, 
flaunt  it  now  in  the  air.  The  women  were  all 
pretty  and  very  much  alive  and,  of  course,  there 
were  touches  of  vermillion  and  coral  and  emerald 
green  and  turquoise  blue  in  the  costumes  and 
combs  in  the  hair   .    .    .    diamond  combs. 

The  play  over,  after  a  long  intermission  dur- 
ing which  refreshments  were  passed,  the  variety 
part  of  the  entertainment  began.  The  Senorita 
Lahoz  sang  a  tuneful  ditty  called  Carolina  and 
sang  it  sufficiently  badly,  but  she  was  recalled  and 
a  bouquet  was  thrown  to  her  from  one  of  the  boxes, 
after  which  she  was  permitted  to  retire.  Then  the 
Senorita  Iris  sang  Mala  Entrana  and  the  young 
man  back  of  me  knew  it  well  enough  to  sing  it 
with  her.  The  songs  out  of  the  way,  the  "  gran 
haile  Espanol  "  began.  The  first  of  the  dancers 
to  be  announced  was  the  "  siempre  aplaudida  "  En- 
riqueta  Bonilla.  The  pianist  struck  up  a  gay 
dance  measure,  in  3-4  time,  of  course,  and  the 
Bonilla  appeared.  She  proved  to  be  somewhat 
massive  but  handsome  after  the  manner  of  massive 
ladies.  In  spite  of  her  size  and  her  age  she  un- 
doubtedly knew  how  to  dance  and  with  the  Spanish 
that  is  the  matter  of  importance.  Besides  plump- 
ness is  almost  a  requisite  of  success  on  the  Spanish 
stage.  The  technique  of  her  arms,  legs,  and  cas- 
[345] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

tanets  was  up  to  a  measurable  standard.  Indeed, 
with  her  hands,  wrists,  and  fingers  she  did  some 
beautiful  things.  And  she  was  certainly  much  ap- 
plauded. On  her  return  an  incident  characteristic 
of  the  unselfconscious  and  somewhat  careless  atti- 
tude of  a  Spanish  performer  before  the  public  oc- 
curred. The  pianist  began  to  play  a  new  tune, 
whereupon  the  Bonilla,  stamping  her  tiny  feet  and 
crying,  "  No !  No !  "  retreated  sulking  to  a  corner. 
He  repeated  the  first  dance  and  she  entered  into 
it  all  smiles  and  coquetries.  This  time  she  called, 
"  Ole !  "  in  a  deep  resonant  voice  and  the  audience 
joined  in.  Next,  assisted  by  two  young  girls,  she 
danced  to  new  measures.  It  was  curious  to  see 
how,  although  they  were  all  following  the  same 
general  scheme  of  steps  and  gestures,  the  three 
seemed  entirely  independent  of  one  another,  the  arm 
and  leg  raising,  the  stamping,  etc.,  were  simultane- 
ous but  all  pointed  to  different  degrees,  all  set  in 
different  lines.  ...  At  last  the  Bonilla  retired 
and  two  very  young  and  pretty  ladies  in  orange 
and  gilt  skirts,  the  Sefioritas  Lahoz  and  Martinez, 
entered  to  dance  the  Jot  a  Aragonesa.  The  pian- 
ist played  the  familiar  folk-dance  and  the  ladies 
advanced  and  retreated,  clattered  their  castanets, 
threw  their  legs  about,  and  "  grew  mad  with  their 
bodies."  Bonilla  from  the  wings  shouted  encour- 
[346] 


The   Spanish   Theatre 

agement  and  loudly  clicked  her  own  castanets. 
The  audience  shouted  too.  One  young  man  was 
even  moved  to  throw  his  neighbour's  hat  on  the 
stage  but  was  prevented.  The  dance  over,  the 
ladies  were  called  back  and  it  was  repeated.  This 
time  I  stood  at  the  back  of  the  hall  and  watched 
the  dancers  reflected  in  patterns  in  the  mirrors  at 
the  sides  of  the  auditorium  under  the  boxes,  a  very 
wonderful  eff'ect  which  can  be  observed  in  few 
theatres.  For  shadows  or  reflections  will  make 
something  interesting  even  of  something  stupid. 
...  As  the  hour  was  late  I  did  not  remain  for  Los 
Tres  Gorriones  (The  three  sparrows)  by  Miguel 
Echegaray  (who,  I  was  disappointed  to  observe, 
was  not  "  aplavdido  "),  the  music  by  Torregrosa, 
But  I  shall  go  again. 
March  n,  1919, 


[347] 


11^ 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


cDfl77D3n^ 


i'k 


A  Recent  Book  by  Carl  Van  Vechfen  is 

THE   MUSIC  OF  SPAIN 

Contains,  aside  from  the  title  essay,  long  papers  on  Bizet's 
Carmen  and  Valverde's  The  Land  of  Joy.  Tndcx,  notes,  and 
illustrations. 

"When  1  read  Carl  Van  V'echten's  J  lie  Music  oj  :bpani  i 
thought  that  little  could  be  adde^  to  its  comprehensive  sweep  of 
the  situation.  Studied  in  company  with  Havelock  Ellis's  Tlie 
Soul  of  Spain  or  1\.  A.  M.  Stevenson's  F^/d^gw^^  a  pretty  good 
notion  of  the  arts  of  that  fascinating  country  may  be  obtained." 
James  Huneker  in  The 

'This  essay  on  Spanish  music  is  In  far  the  most  complete, 
instructive,  and  sympathetic  in  modern  musical  literature.  It  i> 
the  only  one  in  English  that'  is  worthy  of  consideration.  It  is 
far  superior  to  the  work  of  the  Frenchman,  ^ruilu'^^  ^^^M^  h-A< 
made  a  perfunctory  musical  tour  of  the  nation 
The  Music  of  Spain  will  be  of  great  assisfanee  to  the  \\  r 
musical  subjects,  by  its  biographical  information,  by  its  treat- 
ment of  operas  and  dances,  it  should  greatly  interest  the  general 
reader,  by  the  brilliance  of  description,  by  the  personal  flavor, 
by  humor  that  is  not  forcedyby  wit  that  is  occasionally  and  pleas- 
ingly malicious  in  side  remarks  and  observations." 

Philip  Hat.i:  in  The  Boston  Herald. 

"This  book,  the  first  on  its  subject  to  appear  in  the  United 
States,   is   written   with   a   |)erfect  knowledge  of  the  material   it 

handles."  Im:i.i  i'i-,   l'i-nRi:i.i.. 


